


Draíocht

by clowsan, youareiron_andyouarestrong



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Druids, F/M, Folklore, Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-04 01:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4121392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clowsan/pseuds/clowsan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/youareiron_andyouarestrong/pseuds/youareiron_andyouarestrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Romans have their eyes set on Éire. But in this strange and mysterious land nothing is as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bean an tí

**Author's Note:**

> This is a massive Matt/Claire AU by mumblingmumbler and thegirlofpensandbooks. It is lined thick with Celtic lore and magic. We hope you enjoy it. Cross posted from tumblr.

****

Draíocht 

_(DREE-oct). Magic, enchantment. That which is unseen._

  


In the heart of the forest, there is a cottage made of wood and stone. The villagers speak of it in reverent hushed whispers. Some say that only those who has real need of it can find it. While some say that it changes positions depending on who is seeking it. But all of them agrees about the Lady.  


The Lady is beautiful, merciful and wise. Wise beyond the years that her face shows. She is strong as the roots of the oak and has healing in her hands.  

The Romans laugh when the villagers warn them of entering the forest. They brush their words aside as the ramblings of savages without real Gods to guide them. So on they walk with their iron-shod sandals and swords and cloaks, while the trees murmur and the rivers stir and the dark watches as they march through the wood, trampling as they go. The people shake their heads and say quietly to each other, “the Lady will teach them better. The Lady and the dark.”

*

The Legion walks, confident with their numbers and their torches. Their order is clear. Gain control of all the villages of the North. Use force if necessary. Some Lady with her pagan magic and the forest cannot conquer a thousand strong fully trained soldiers. But the longer they march, the heavier their hearts grow and the thicker the trees seem to get. Soon they barely see the path before them and they cannot hear anything else but the rush of water from somewhere. The Commander calls a halt and orders his soldier to build camp. That night they pray to their Gods. 

They are too far from Rome for Jove and Juno to catch the smoke of their fires. 

*

The dark watches them. The dark waits at the edges of their fires, their camps, their tents. Their supplies go missing in the night, the trees become so thick they cannot find the path again. In the morning, they hear the burbling of the brook and river, but cannot find it no matter how hard they try. By the third day, the iron discipline of Rome’s greatest army is in tatters. And all the while the dark swirls closer and closer still, the trees creak and murmur and the river rises like a flood.

The attack happens suddenly. Two centurions down from their post in a blink. The dark has been patient. Now it unleashes its fury to these barbarians. There are screams as soldiers uselessly grab their weapons. Swords and spears. But the forest is upon them and there is no escape. One young soldier runs to the Commander’s tent. 

“They are here! They are here!” He yells, hysterically. “The forest is alive.”

The Commander is cool, calm, calculating, a true son of Rome. He does not flinch at the panicked yells and cries of his men. Instead, he rises, takes his gladius, and strides out of his tent, past the campfire, as the dark becomes still and watchful, coiled like a beast. 

The Commander unsheathes the sword and moves. There is blood on the ground that gleams like oil ( _not human, not human_ , fearful whispers say), but the Commander is left with his fine tunic in tatters and the trees scream their outrage and the rivers boil in fury. 

When the morning finally comes, the Legion is halved. 

*

In the light of day, the dark changes its shape. Strong arms and powerful legs. Skin as pale as the moon and a face that belies his true age. He clutches his stomach where the mortal has struck a lucky (or _unlucky)_ blow. He needs to get back to the Grove. The Grove will heal him but his strength is failing him. His senses flicker and out; he knows somewhere out there there is shelter and healing and he stumbles it toward it, only knowing he’s reached it when the familiar warmth of magic (the land’s magic) settles over him. That’s when he lets himself collapse.  

*

The Lady has a name, though very few dare to speak it out loud. She does not discourage this; names have power, after all. But sometimes she misses the sound of it in the air, the shape of it on someone’s lips. The Lady’s name is Claire, and she has been the Druid for almost fifteen years. In all that time, she has mended what was broken, fixed what was hurt, and healed what was split, as her vows commanded her to do. She has sworn herself to the god of the forests when she became a maiden and now, she is a woman grown. A woman who lives alone in the forest should have been easy prey, or so any young fool would think. But Claire is not without some power of her own, and in the light of day, she heads out to her garden, the small, sharp iron knife tucked in her belt and the basket over one arm to gather herbs.

The man lying sprawled face first in her herb garden was a surprise.  

A tiny frown mars her face. He is crushing her juniper berries and she has need of them for cleansing this noon. She kneels beside him, shaking his form but all she gets is a pitiful groan. She sighs and gives him a push so he is facing upwards and it is only then that she sees it. A large gash across his abdomen so deep, she is surprised that his innards are not spilling out. 

“What have you gotten yourself into, stranger?” she murmurs as she tears the lower hem of her skirt and presses it against the flow of the blood. Her mouth tightens as she studies the wound; no clansman had weapons that made those kinds of cuts. A Roman’s broad, leaf-shaped blade did that. “Fool of man,” she mutters, looking around her garden for the telltale clomp of Roman shoes. “What were you thinking, taking on the barbarians?”

A low groan comes from beneath her hands and taking a deep breath, she sets aside her basket and levers him into an upright position. Years of hard work have made her strong and this man is built on average lines, but her back buckles under the weight of heavy muscle. “Merciful Danu,” she mutters, struggling to stay upright. “Where do you put it all?”   

But the man does not answer. She half drags and half carries him to her cottage and onto a cot. It creaks under his weight. She quickly gathers what she needs, humming all the while. She boils water and gathers comfrey and feverfew, herbs for mending. She burns apple wood and murmurs a quick prayer as its gentle aroma fills the space. She pulls out old linen from a shift that does not fit any more and tears them into strips for bandages.  

She begins cleaning the wound, carefully. It is more often that it is the fever from festering that kills. Once she is assure that it is clean she crushes the herbs and chants under her breath. She feels the magic build from that place in her soul and it travels to the tips of her fingers. She applies the paste evenly over the injury. Danu be good, it will be healed by the next dawn.

The man lying on her coat breathes yet, though shallowly. She takes the time to study his unconscious form. He is a handsome face, grave and earnest, though she suspects he is older than he appears; his face is one of those that could be either young or old. There is an elegance to it that is not--quite-- _human_ , or at least the humanity she recognizes. A forest god maybe, she thinks, though for a forest god to let himself be so badly wounded means there is something out there that can (and will) do so. Romans, she thinks, with a curl of her lip. These foreign invaders have no respect for powers far beyond their ken, but they can hurt them thoughtlessly, with unbelief and iron. The land is built upon belief, her mentors told her, time and time again. _The lands tells us what we are, and we tell the land what it is._  She pulls out her one good bone needle and thread made from hair of a horse’s tail and sets about to stitching the worst of the wounds.

*

The darkness has a name too, though none now living remembers it. The name could be or is many different things to many different people, but for now, he picks one that stays with him, a flicker of a story from another time, another life. Another world, even.  

 _Matt._ He hears his brother, the trees, in his mind, calling for him through their connection. _Matt, where are you? We’re getting worried; Karen can’t even feel you anymore, Matt? We need you back in the Grove._

Something pierces his skin, not iron from the enemy’s sword, but bone and thread. Matt startles and gasps, eyes flying wide open though they did not see as mortals do. Flashes of sensation make him disorientated and dizzy. 

A soft hand to his chest. "Calm, stranger," a woman’s voice says. "I mean you no harm."

His head spins with different scents. Familiar herbs, apple wood burning and milk. Sunshine and green, growing things. “Easy now,” says the woman’s voice above his head, warm and low, making him think of the sound honey makes when it drips down from the comb. “You have a gut wound that I just sewed up. I worked hard on those stitches.” 

"Who? Where? Wha-?" The words tumble out of his mouth, incomplete and senseless. He remembers the fight. The Roman soldier with the iron sword. The blow that nearly killed him, as  all iron kills the fey.  

A chuckle, warm and dry. “At least now you’re awake,” she says, her voice rich with wry amusement. A slight clattering as she moves objects around. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t wake up at all.” 

He is confused and tries to get up again but his head spins. His body has not gotten rid of the iron in his blood yet. "I need to go." He states, grunting. "My brother, my sister--”

“What village are they from?” she asks calmly, seemingly deaf to his urgency. “I can send them a message--lie _down_!” Her voice is sharp now with well-practiced authority as he tries to get up. “Merciful Danu, you can barely stand!”

“Don’t bring that bastard up,” he mutters, still struggling to rise. “I just had finished a feud with him.”

There is a terrible silence. Her heart is going like a racing hare’s, but outwardly, she does not move.  

"You had a feud with Danu?" she asks carefully drawing out each word. "Perhaps you lost more blood than I thought."

“I’m not mad,” he says irritably, annoyed by the tone. “Do the Keepers of the land no longer recognize it?”  


"I did not say you are mad, only confu-" she stops mid-sentence. He can feel her observing him, attention coming from her like heat from the fire. "You are no mortal, are you? I knew it. That injury would have killed a lesser man." 

He is mildly offended that she thought he was lesser, but chooses to ignore it for now. “Who are you, Lady?”

There is a silence again she thinks, her heart slowly receding to normalcy. “Claire,” she says finally, one hand twisting in the fabric of her skirt, rough homespun, he realizes. He recognizes the smell of a Druid’s plain robes. “I have been the Keeper of this steading for fifteen years.” 

"Claire." He repeats, testing the letters on his tongue. "Lady Claire, you have my gratitude. But I must go now. I left in the middle of a battle and I worry for my brother and my sister."

“Your brother and sister will have to manage without you,” she replies, unmoved. “Fey or not, the iron in your blood is muddling your head if you think you can leave so quickly without doing harm to yourself.”

He glares, not knowing how effective it is because he can’t see her face. “You would do well not to hinder me.”

“You would do well to mind me,” she retorts. “Am I not the Keeper of the land?”

"You cannot stop me," he says mulishly as he tries to shift back to his other form. However after a few attempts, he realizes that he cannot do it. He maybe a fey and she a mortal but in these hallowed grounds, the land yields to her power. He cannot leave until she allows it.

“There now, you see?” she says exasperatedly and then hesitates, leaning in closer. “I mean--”

“I can’t,” he says, his turn to use a tone as dry as dust. “I am the darkness of the forest, Lady Claire. By your eyes, I am blind.”

“You can fight the Romans while blind?” she asks dubiously and a chuckle escapes him, though it pains his ribs to do so.

“There are other ways to see,” he reassures her. He pauses and clutches his head suddenly, wincing against the onslaught of emotion from outside. Foggy is frantic at his lack of communication and Karen’s agitation is apparent. The trees and the river reflect their alarm. "If I am not to leave without your permission, then perhaps you have a way for me to contact my family. The land will not let me now." 

There is silence and he thinks that the Lady nods. It takes her a second more before she speaks. "Yes. Wait here while I get the scrying bowl."

Matt listens as she walks aways. The swishing of her robes against the wooden floor planks. She comes back and places the bowl in front of him. It is pure, heavy silver, a sign of her status and power. The air around them thrums with it like a far-off thunderstorm. He closes his eyes and searches for the thread that connects him to Foggy. He reaches for it.

 _Where are you!_ Foggy all but roars, making Matt recoil back on the cot with the force of it. _Do you know how worried we have been?_

 _I’m sorry,_ he tries to say, but Foggy is having none of it. 

_Karen can’t concentrate and the grove is out of warp because you’re not in it! And I couldn’t feel you at all!_

Matt grimaces. _I'm in the care of a Keeper. And I may have tried to leave without her permission._

_...You idiot._

_I know. I was hurt. The foreigner got me with the iron blade. It was the Great Mother's mercy I made it here at all. The Keeper is healing me now._

Foggy’s distress is still there, but it’s simmered down to something manageable for them both.   _Well stay there until she’s done. I’ll let Karen know that you aren’t dead yet and someone is looking after you. Maybe that will help her focus and the grove will regain its balance._ A pause and then a flicker of question. _...Is she beautiful?_

Matt rolls his eyes, knowing Foggy can get the general sensation. _How would I know?_

 _You have an instinct for these things,_ is the relatively cheerful reply. Then dark expectation. _You do realize how much more difficult this makes my life, don’t you?_

 _I don’t know what you mean,_ Matt tells Foggy stiffly. A snort of amusement flashes through his head. 

_Fine, fine. Deny it if you wish. But don’t forget, she’s a Keeper of the land. No time for your pursuits today, brother._  

 _You can go now_ , Matt tells Foggy, hoping the impression of gritted teeth will end this line of thought. _Farewell brother. I shall be back in the Grove soon._

The connection flickers out and Matt lets himself collapse back on the cot, drained with the effort.  

Claire takes the scrying bowl from him. "Here. Drink this," she says, as she presses a cup against his lips. "Honeyed milk. It will help you sleep and recover faster." 

This time, he does not offer any complaints. He just follows her direction, gulping down the warm and sweet liquid. It eases his throat and he finds himself getting drowsy and his eyelids heavy.

Claire's hand rests on his forehead, comforting and warm, smelling of life and growing things, power of the land thrumming in it like purr of a cat. "Sleep now, stranger," she murmurs. 

She deserves more from him than that. He would give her a name, if not his true one. "Matt..." He mumbles but he is not sure if she heard him. "My name is Matt..."  



	2. Feis

****

Draíocht  


_(DREE-oct). Magic, enchantment. THAT WHICH IS UNSEEN._

No one speaks of the General's name out loud. Those who are foolish enough to dare, still check over their shoulders and say it in the lowest tones possible as if scared that the man himself will appear. **  
**

The General is a legend among the soldiers. He has brought many a nation to its knees for the Empire. He is ruthless and brutal with his methods and his eyes are set upon this land.

The Commander stands straight despite his numerous injuries. He waits to be acknowledge, waits for the General to finish his meal for he knows better than to interrupt. 

"Tell me," the General finally says. "for I have trouble understanding. How did a thousand of my men fail to get through a forest?" 

Cold sweat breaks over the Commander's skin. He has been in the service of the General for many years, since before the time of Caesar. He has proved his loyalty and effectiveness again and again and yet it seems to him that still his position, his status, his life hangs by the slenderest of threads. 

“We were attacked,” he says finally, weighing each word carefully. “In the Britons’ so-called sacred forest.”

“Attacked,” repeats the General. “By whom?”

There is no good answer. No amount of witnesses or cold, precise Roman logic can explain away what happened in the woods that night.  

"Rebels with some special training." 

The General’s face turns hard. “ _Special training_? These are _barbarians_ , living in huts and praying to wood and water. What kind of ‘ _special training_ ’ allows them to half the Legion?”

"They know the terrain, sir. They use it to their advantage and cloak themselves and had caught us off-guard." The Commander pauses. "I bested one of them. “

That is the only good thing that came out of that chaotic night and he can’t even be sure it’s true. Blood that sank into the ground and disappeared in the light of day is hardly grounds for “besting” anyone, but at this point, the Commander isn’t about to make the fine distinction. 

The General leans back on his chair, contemplative. "That forest is the only thing that stands between us and the villages on the other side, Commander. I am sure you understand what needs to be done."

The Commander nods his head, bows. What needs to be done is simple--apply Roman strength at the problem until it breaks. He starts with the woods. 

"Rest and heal, Commander. Train new men and show them how you bested your opponent." The General stands up. "You are one of my best soldiers, Wesley. I loathe to think that I have to replace you if you fail."

It is not a threat; it is a statement of fact, with a very thin edge of a warning. The Commander bows his head in acknowledgment. “Understood, General.” He waits until he is dismissed. 

“And Wesley.”

“Yes sir?”

“Send out the dogs. Send out the Gemini.”  


*

Matt wakes up to sound of muffled laughter, an overwhelming scent of wild flowers and some light pressure on his chest. He cracks his eyes open. 

"Ohhhh he's waking up." A child says in that not quite a whisper voice. 

"I told you that putting those flowers on him will wake him up." Another pipes in. 

A familiar presence enters the room, footsteps on the ground, wool robes swishing as she walks. Claire. "So this is where you all ran off to. Didn't I tell you not to bother the wounded man I have in here?" There is only the slightest hesitation when she uses the word _man_ , underneath the exasperated good humor.

"But Lady, we just wanted to help," another tiny voice explains. "Look we got all the healing flowers for him, just as you taught us."

Claire laughs and what a laugh it is. Warm like sunshine, rich like damp, dark earth upturned for growing the harvest. The children swarm closer to her and if it wasn’t for the wound in his gut, Matt will do the same. But for now he settles for slowly sitting upright, cautiously testing his weight on his elbows. He feels the wild flowers rain down to his lap. 

"There now, see. You have woken him up," Claire states, in a disapproving tone. Matt hears the children's heart beats drop. They are disappointed with themselves for disappointing her. "You need to apologize for disturbing him."

“It’s no matter,” he says, dismissively. “I had enough of sleeping for now.”

“Even so, they should have known better than go in here.” Claire insists. “Now I want those apologies or there will be no stories later tonight.” The children jump into action, crowding him, and start spouting out apologies that he barely understands. High pitched and sincere and he has to smile. Whatever the story Claire has for them, it must be a good one. 

Claire laughs again and it tugs at his heartstrings. “Children, children. One at a time. Bran, Aeron then Greta.” 

It is more orderly the second time. Bran, Aeron and Greta take turns saying their apologies and saying that they will pray to the River Goddess for his swift recovery. Matt thinks that Karen will appreciate the sentiment. 

“Now move along children. Your mother still needs help for tonight’s meal.”

There is a chorus of dismayed groans but the shuffling of little feet lets Matt know that his younger guests are leaving. 

Claire sighs. “I think they may have cleared a meadow for these flowers.” She begins gathering the blooms and setting them aside. 

“I am flattered that they want me to heal quickly.” Matt replies.

“They are good children,” she agrees.  He can hear the fond smile in her voice fade to briskness. "Let me redress your wounds. You look well enough to try and stand." 

He sends his senses inward now, testing himself. The iron’s effect has faded now, no longer muddling his head. The wound itself feels better and healing faster, though still tender. 

Claire's fingers lightly dance across his skin as she replaces his bandages with clean ones. She inhales deeply once she finishes. There is a hitch in her breath that warns him of her next statement. "There is someone that wants to meet you." She pauses. "He is an elder from a nearby village." 

It isn’t uncommon for elders to come speak to the sacred woods, but by now, the people rarely come seeking the dark, though they know enough to expect his protection. Foggy and Karen, for all their wildness, are easier, better with people and prayers then he is. The dark is not known for answering prayers in a timely (or wanted) fashion. 

“He’s been my mentor for years now,” Claire goes on as he listens intently. “He and I have been trying to put a stop to the invaders, but we haven’t yet found a way to do it. I think--” she stops, checks herself and finishes the question carefully, “I... _hope_ you might be able to help us.” 

Matt tilts his head. “What would you have me do?”

"For a start, speak to Elder Ben," Claire says. “Bring your brother and sister if they want to come. The invaders defeat us because we are not united; it’s just clan after clan warring them as much as each other. If we had some kind of unifying _force_ , then maybe we would stand a chance.” 

It makes sense. The clans that live along and in the forests, in one way or the other, worship the woods. The trees, the rivers and the dark. “You think they will listen?”

Claire snorts softly. “I think that by now, they can’t afford to _not_ listen. We thought that they would go away if we painted ourselves blue and howled at them. They haven’t and now is the time to act, unless we want to live with an eagle standard over us all.”

Matt’s lips peel back from his teeth at such a thought. “ _Never_ ,” he growls, deep and low in his throat. He will see every sacred grove burned to ash before he, or Foggy or Karen, countenances such a thing. 

Her heartbeat goes only a pace faster at the sound of his voice. "Then you will speak to Elder Ben," she says with a tone of finality. He hears her stand up. "Would you like to join us for a meal? Do feys eat like humans do? Or do you live off mortals' prayers and sacrifices?"

He laughs, amused by the thought: he, the dark of the forest, sitting at a table and meal with his worshippers. As if he were like them. “I eat,” he assures her, managing to sit upright in the cot. “My blood is fey, but my body is as mortal as yours, I promise.” 

He can feel the attention of her gaze sweep over him, leisurely and thoughtfully. He knows his body’s strengths, knows it’s capabilities, though it’s exact appearance remains a mystery to him. It’s not a secret to him that women, fey or mortal, are drawn to it, to him. Foggy’s half-serious, half-teasing warning was not completely unfounded. 

The Druid women are not shy about claiming a man that finds favor in their eyes. 

“More milk and meat for you,” she says out loud, crisply cool. “For a fey, you are next to nothing. You might vanish into your shadow if you are not careful.”  

Matt raises an eyebrow at this."But my Lady, I am the darkness of the forest. I disappear into the shadows already.”

  
A delighted laugh escapes her then. “I am admonished,” she says, the tone completely belying her words. 

“Is it customary for you to treat your protectors with such impertinence?” he asks. “Or am I the only one so fortunate?" 

"From where I stand, I don't think you need more people to inflate your pride," she retorts cheekily. “Darkness of the forest.”

“I told you my name,” he reminds her. “It’s Matt.”

“Matt,” she repeats, trying out the word in her mouth. A quiet, firm name, not entirely suited to this man’s all-too apparent wildness. “Well then, _Matt_ , the time for the evening meal is here. Would you join me?”

*

Gilda and her children flutter about like sparrows with the last of the preparations when Claire and Matt step out of the cottage. A hearty meat stew bubbles merrily on the open fire and freshly baked breads are laid out on the long wooden table with flowers and cut up fruits. Greta bounces towards them with a wide grin that shows her missing teeth. 

"We are almost finished, my Lady," she announces before smiling up to Matt. "The healing flowers worked! You don't look half dead anymore." 

"Greta!" Bran, who is passing by them with the the bowls, hisses. "Forgive her, sir. She is young and does not know better."

Claire stifles a laugh into her hand as Matt crouches down to be level with the little girl’s face. “It’s alright,” he assures the children, who are watching anxiously for his reaction. “Thank you for the flowers, Greta. I feel like I could go fight three giants, each of them bigger and the uglier than the other. So they _must_ have worked.”

A fond smile blooms on Claire’s face before she can stop it as she watches him interact with the children. Perhaps there is more to this _man_ than she thought.

The children let out relieved sighs as Greta beams into his face like the sun. “You’re welcome, good sir." 

"My Lady, Ma said that everything is ready." Aeron chimes in as she joins them. "Also Elder Ben has arrived." 

Claire nods. "Shall we go?"

*

Claire does not remember a time that Elder Ben has not been her mentor or the village chief. The man is as old and as weathered as oak, skin burnt dark like the heart of charred wood with sharp eyes. His family came from a far, hot place, brought by invaders as a slave to their leader in the beginning. Through cunning, intelligence and trickery, he escaped them and came to the village when Claire’s parents were but children. They did not know what to make of him at first, with his strange, deep voice like honey poured over coals, his closely cropped, tight curly hair and great weathered hands, the palms smooth and pink. But he is strong and wise and helps them outthink and outsmart the invaders.  

Claire trusts older man with her life. So when she finds Matt in her garden, bearing wounds from a Roman blade and claiming to have had a feud with Danu. She follows her instincts and sends a message to her mentor.

"My Lady," he greets her with a slight bow.

She purses her lips. It sounds wrong to her ears when he addresses her so formally when she has taken her first steps with him guiding her. She walks towards him and embraces him. "Elder Ben, so glad you can join us."

He smiles, crinkling the corner of his eyes. "An invitation from the Lady is not something to be ignored. Especially when there is a meal prepared by Gilda." He glances at Matt who is at the table with the children. "And there is such an intriguing guest." 

Matt bristles and turns his head at their direction and she wonders if he heard Ben's remark.

"Come, let me introduce you." She says, offering her arm. 

*

The meal is one of Gilda’s best. The stew is flavorful and filling and it pairs wonderfully with the bread and spiced wine. Gilda keeps fussing over Matt, like she does for her children, telling him that he needs more meat in his bones and keeps on piling food in his bowl. Claire bites back another laugh at Matt’s startled expression as food reappears in front of him. 

She thinks that Matt and Ben are silently gauging each other. They keep the topic light. There seems to be a silent agreement that any talk concerning the Romans is for later in the night. She agrees with that. These children have enough nightmare as it is. 

For her story around the fire she tells them about the Great Mother and her three children.

“The Mother that watches us all has three children,” she tells her rapt audience. “The dark, the woods and the river.”

Matt’s head comes up at her words, his whole body moving to follow the story as Claire speaks, her voice rich with power and tradition. “The dark, the woods and the river,” Claire repeats, “all live in one accord in the sacred grove. They are as spokes on a wheel; one cannot exist without the other two. The dark protects us, the trees shelter us, the river keeps us alive.” She pauses, resisting the urge to let her eyes drift to Matt. 

“The Great Mother knew her children were strong, proud and powerful. She also knew they could be cruel, merciless and unyielding.” Matt shifts slightly, not sure he is comfortable with this description of himself, his brother and sister. Claire goes on, “The Mother gave the dark, the woods and the river people to watch over, so they could see for themselves what great harm or help they could do. You must not fear or hate them. They do not fear or hate you.” _Most of you_ , Matt thinks dryly, but keeps it to himself. “You must remember one thing always,” Claire tells the children as they press closer. “The dark, the woods and the river will neither harm you nor help you if it does not suit them.  

“That is why we teach you children to not fear the dark, the woods or the river. They are neither good nor bad; they simply _are_.” 

The children are all wide eyed and chattering with excitement. Bran stands and declares that he is the trees, waving his arms in a tree-like fashion. Aeron declares she will be the river and pretends to sway back and forth as she imagines a river might.

“I’m going to be the dark,” Greta decides, drawing her tunic up over over her head like a hood. “The dark is the best one.”

“No it’s the river,” says Aeron firmly, even as Bran exclaims indignantly, “The trees!” as the game promptly dissolves into an argument. 

Claire shoots an amused glance at Matt, who looks equally flattered and startled that a little girl wants to be like him. Gilda shakes her head. "My Lady they will be awake this whole night arguing now."

It is Ben who puts a halt to the growing debate: "Children, children. The Great Mother created the three guardians as equals. One is not greater than the other. We must always remember this." He goes on, "Now, I hate to be the one to end this night's festivities but it is late and you children must rest."

The children all groan and moan, but each rise reluctantly. Their mother shuffles them out of the grounds after saying their thank yous and goodbyes.  “Good night Lady,” they call to Claire as they go. “Good night, Elder Ben! Good night stranger!”

Matt sighs as Claire laughs softly at his face. “They’ll call me stranger for the rest of their lives now, won’t they?” he asks ruefully. 

"Yes. I'm afraid so, stranger," Claire replies with a straight face.

Ben chuckles then turns serious after a moment. "I have not met you, I think,” he says slowly, studying Matt. “And I have known every person in each village for at least ten leagues. No one in any of them is blind.”

Matt tilts his head in Ben’s direction, his smile suddenly sharp and feral, any veneer of civility or humanity falling from him like a dropped veil. “Do you not know the dark when you see it?” Claire does not imagine the sharp edge of mockery in his voice, or the sudden arrogance. She reminds herself that for all his quietness and perceived gentleness, Matt is no more _human_ than a wolf or a hawk. He is fey, he is close to immortal, and powerful beyond reckoning.

_But he spoke kindly to the children_ , some part of her protests, _and worries about his brother and sister. He ate at my table, listened to my stories._   

_You think that makes him any less than what he is?_ the Druid part of her replies.

Ben draws in his breath, sharp and sudden, slowly bends his head in acknowledgement, though it is not precisely a bow. “My apologies, great one,” he says softly. “It’s been a long time since your kind has been among us.” Matt nods his head regally, arrogant as any king.    

Claire almost snorts. She means no disrespect but it is almost hysterical how just a couple of hours ago, they are exchanging arguments about the harvest and Ben is teasing Matt about mistaking the honey for the salt. Matt has pretended to be confused where the food is so to make the children laugh. 

But she should’ve known Ben is not so easily cowed, even by a forest fey. “You have run afoul of the Romans,” he says shrewdly, eyeing the bandage on Matt’s torso. “Are not the fey supposed to be powerful?”

Matt’s lips pulls back from his teeth, grinning mirthlessly and unamused. “It was an off night.”  

The elder nods. "All of the mother's creatures have off nights." He sighs. "Perhaps we should start this meeting of minds. Will you call on your sister and brother to join us?"

The words have barely left his mouth when the wind picks up around them, the trees creaking and groaning, the sudden smell of the river filling the air. Ben and Claire look up, alarmed, but Matt’s face softens and relaxes.  



	3. Comhar

****

Draíocht  


_(DREE-oct). Magic, enchantment. THAT WHICH IS UNSEEN._

Two figures form in the air outside the cottage’s grounds. The Tree Fey is built like one of the great oak trees, broad across the shoulders and solid in the middle. His face is made for smiles and friendliness, as comfortable as the nook of a tree that fits a person perfectly to sit in, for all his strength and girth. The River Goddess, in contrast, is as slender as a reed, with a fall of golden hair and blue eyes to match her river.   **  
**

"I smell the remnants of a feast," the male hums, grinning at the female, who rolls her eyes good-naturedly at his endless appetite. “Matt sure knows how to pick them, doesn’t he?”

" _Foggy_ ," the woman says in a warning tone. "Now is not the time to tease our little brother. We can do that later."  She pauses. “Though I think his taste has greatly improved.” 

A boom of laughter echoes it’s way up to the cottage. Having caught the last remark, Matt glowers in the direction of his sister. He turns to Claire. “May I invite my brother and sister into your home?”

Claire gracefully nods. "Of course." She feels the wards that surrounds the grounds move to accommodate the new visitors. They come into the grounds, the male moving like tree roots underground, steady and sure, the woman like water over rocks, smooth and endlessly flowing. 

"New friends!" Foggy exclaims, giddy and childlike. "Pleased to meet you, at last." Hugging Claire and Ben like he has known them their whole lives (and perhaps he has, Claire realizes, thinking back to all the times she has walked underneath the forest’s roof).  

Karen, slightly more restrained, extends her hands in the traditional blessing. “Blessings be,” she says softly, and then catches sight of Matt, still seated due to the wound in his side. “Little brother,” she says, immediately moving to him, her lovely face creased in concern, “what have you done to yourself?”

“I didn’t do anything; that bastard Roman did. And I am only three eons younger than you Karen,” Matt says exasperatedly, allowing her to kiss his forehead and run careful hands down his side. “There is not _that_ much difference between us.”

“Oh that is enough,” she assures him darkly, “when I think about all the trouble you have caused me. It is a wonder my hair does not go grey like the mortals do.” 

“You mean it’s not?” he asks blandly and she gently strikes his left shoulder. 

“Impertinent child,” she growls as Matt retorts, “Worrisome old woman.” 

“As your older brother, I command you both to cease your childish bickering,” says Foggy pompously and instantly, Matt throws the remains of a loaf of bread at him as Foggy dodges it easily, and Karen flicks her hand at the pitcher of ale on the table and instantly the tree fey is doused with its contents. 

Claire and Ben look at each other with bemused expressions on their faces. These are the Guardians of the Forest? They act like any young children, teasing and bickering amongst themselves.  

Claire clears her throat deliberately, the teasing halts. "Guardians, if I may have your attention. There is the matter of the Romans on our doorsteps. They tramples on our land and leave death on their wake," Claire says firmly. "My mentor and I have summoned you here to speak of a plan to defeat them once and for all." 

All three fey bristle ever so slightly at the idea that they could be _summoned_ , but Matt speaks first. “Explain to me why the clans do not unite against them once and for all,” he says, Foggy and Karen stand closer to him. “Have each of them not suffered enough under the Roman eagle?”

"Why does oil not mix with water? They are both liquid, yet they are not the same," Ben replies. “The clans fight amongst themselves because each one wants power. No clan wishes to let the other lead them into war.” 

"I have forgotten how petty humans can be," Karen remarks. In her shimmering, weightless gown of silver and blue, she looks as inhuman and as ethereal as mist on the lake. 

It is now Claire and Ben’s turn to bristle. “Our lives are shorter than yours, true,” agrees Claire, ever so slightly narrowing her eyes. “Yet I think about the tales I tell of the fey, the epics and the myths, and I wonder how much room you have to speak about _our_ pettiness.” 

Foggy raises his hands. He is ever the peacemaker, ever solid and rational and deeply rooted to the earth. "We are all on the same side,” he reminds the two women, who are now glaring at each other. “Humans and fey _both_ stand to suffer if the Roman eagle reaches any further.” 

"All Romans must eradicated from these lands." Matt says, cold and calculating. "How many of our groves have they burned, how many Druids have they butchered? They are naught but trouble for our people."

Claire sighs. “Some of the Romans have settled here already,” she says quietly. “Some of them have farms here, homes, children. There are those among them who take wives--” 

“ _Slaves_ ,” says Karen, with a hiss like a sword being tempered in water. 

“Some do take slaves. But they also take _wives_ ,” Claire corrects the woman fey quietly. "And there are women among us who take Romans as _husbands_. There are children by such unions; I have birthed them myself. Will you uproot, burn or destroy these families too?”

All three fey seem to exchange glances. 

"You hold much compassion, My Lady," Karen says. "I admire that. But these Romans do not hold the same values as we do."

“They pray to you too,” Claire tells them, and she looks at Matt, gaze unflinching and he can feel the strength in her like iron. "These half-Roman, half-Eirean children. Bran, Aeron and Greta. Their late father was Roman. He let their mother teach them our ways and he taught them how to fight like Romans do, strong and sure. Will you _eradicate_ them as well?"

“We are fools if we think the Romans can be stopped in their hunger for land,” says Ben softly. “That is the plain truth of it. But for the force that comes to us now, let us turn to that.” 

There is silence as both parties mulls over the situation. It is Foggy who speaks first. 

"Our mother has created us to protect our people. I think it is time to think about who are our people,” he says softly. Karen and Matt stir uneasily at his side and he looks sternly at them both. “We gain strength from the land,” he reminds them. “‘ _Our_ _people’_ are those who believe in us. We gain power from their belief. They tell us what we are and we tell them what they are. These Romans that come for us now do not believe. We might not be able to stop them, but we must not judge those who have not harmed us.”     

Claire smiles at this giant of a man. She has a urge to hug him again but does not miss the frown on Matt’s face. “Do we roll over and let the Romans trample us then?” he asks, his displeasure at such a notion thick in his voice. 

“No,” says Ben firmly. “The Romans do not care what the conquered countries do as long as they pay taxes. We gather the clans, we give the Romans what they want-- _for now_ ,” he adds, seeing all of them, even Foggy, tense at such a suggestion. “The time will come when Rome will have overreached herself. When their politics and armies fail them; it happens even now,” power rippled in Ben’s voice, Matt, Foggy and Karen all drew back as one body as light streamed from Ben into the cottage’s clearing, his voice become three voices in one, old and young and strong and cracked with age all at once. 

Claire lowered her eyes as the voice of the Great Mother of All filled the air. “ _I warn you now, strongest and proudest of my children,”_ she said through Ben. “ _Pay heed to my oracles. Gather your strength. Trees can be regrown, rivers can thaw, darkness will always follow light. The time will come that will bring glory to the Isle of the Mighty, long after the Romans are gone_.” 

The light vanished from Ben as the older man slumped over, gasping for air. Claire instantly rose to her feet, snatching a cup of ale from the table and holding it to his lips. 

“Well I guess that settles it,” Foggy says, in a mock cheerful tone. “Mother has spoken.”

“ Indeed.” Karen nods even when there is a crease between her fine eyebrows. “What about this force that attacked our brother? What of them?”

“We know very little of them,” Ben replies as he sips his ale. “Only that they are led by a man only known as the General. They have retreated to their main camp thanks to your attack. But I am sure that they are regrouping and are just biding their time to continue their campaign.”

“Even the Romans fear him,” says Claire, recalling centurions that have deserted, the worst of crimes for any Roman, rather than serve under the General. “He is not content with merely taxing us; he has gone out of his way to burn groves and villages. He strikes directly at the fey as if--as if--” 

“He fears _us_ ,” Matt murmurs and suddenly all three of them, even gentle-faced Foggy, smile like wolves that have scented prey.  “His soldiers already fear the dark,” says Matt. “Let us but give them a little more to think about.” 

“You _must not_ kill,” says Claire forcefully. “Any more than you absolutely must,” she concedes reluctantly. “Any retribution will be paid to _our_ people.”    

“They will kill us with no remorse, Claire,” Matt replies fiercely, forgetting for one moment to address her as _Lady._ He does not notice (and tells himself it is not important) how suddenly Foggy and Karen’s attention focuses on him as a string has been pulled.  

“I know that!” she snaps back, with all the bite of an angry mother bear. “But we must not be like them! We must be _better_ than them.”

“It can’t be that hard,” he says coldly, “even the beasts of the forest are better than they.”

“If you were not fey I would strike you,” Claire says, two spots of rage high in her cheekbones. Her fury feels like a lightning strike close to his face; a sudden blaze and burn of brightness. “That’s what they tell themselves when they slaughter our children, burn our groves. You are the darkness of the forest but you are _truly_ blind.” 

Bitterness like gall rises in him. She is right and he knows it but he is _fey_ , by the Mother; he will not be spoken to like that by _anyone_ , Keeper or not. Then he feels it, an invisible force gripping his body. The wards are acting against him. He has time to barely blink before he finds himself being forced out of the cottage’s bounds.  

In their mental connection, Foggy smirks. _Serves you right._

 _Shut up_ , he retorts petulantly. He groans as he stands up. By the smell of copper in the air and the slight dampness in his side, he knows that his eviction opened up a few of her stitches. 

Claire’s indignation burns like a bonfire and even Karen is amused by how he is unceremoniously hurled out of the wards.  

 _She is quite a character_ , _this woman_ , his sister says. 

He purses his lips but concedes to the observation. _That she is_.

*

The Gemini is what the brothers are called back in the Coliseum. They have been gladiators.The finest that Rome ever witnessed. The General saw the potential in them and-- _requested_ that Emperor himself to release them into the military's hands-- _his_ hands. The brothers has agreed but only if their freedom from slavery is the price. The General has agreed. Five years of service and they are free men. 

But the Commander knows for sure that his commanding officer has no plans of honoring that deal. No one leaves the General’s service unless there is no breath left on one’s body.

The brothers’ brutality and their previous occupation as hunters and gladiators make them efficient but the Commander does not trust them. They are Greeks and they have a tendency to not follow orders, especially Roman ones. Even now, almost half a decade into the service, they still wear their gladiator garb and laze about in face of higher command. 

“Soldiers,” the Commander says firmly, a tone any other of his men would’ve jumped to attention at. 

The brothers merely glance at him, their postures lax. The Commander fights the urge to correct them. Now is not the time. “The General has a task for you.” 

The older brother steps forward. “Our last one?”

“Yes,” he lies. “He needs you to find a shadow.” 

The younger brother lifts an eyebrow. “You mean the one who did this to you?”

The Commander grits his teeth as the brothers smirk. “Bring that one back here, _alive_. The General will take him from there. Unless, of course it is too great of a task.”

The younger brother growls and makes a move towards the Commander but the older brother steps in between them. “Even shadows leave a trail. We will find him and the General will give us what we want.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We would like to thank everybody who has left kudos, bookmarked and commented. Those really warmed our hearts and spurred us to writing more. We loved hearing what you like and any constructive criticisms are greatly appreciated. Thank you!


	4. Dathúil

  
**Draíocht**   


_(DREE-oct). Magic, enchantment. THAT WHICH IS UNSEEN._

It has taken a while before Claire’s temper simmers down. Foggy, Karen, Ben and she have been discussing their plan on how to lay siege on the Roman's main camp. Claire, however, is distracted. She is calm now and she thinks of how she has physically thrown out Matt. She shoots a wary glance at Karen. The river goddess is clearly fiercely protective of her brother, and after their disagreement earlier, Claire is not sure how the fey woman will react to her forcibly ejecting her brother from the cottage wards.  


As if reading her thoughts, the river goddess turns to look at her. “He deserves it," she says with a sly, amused smile. "My brother has long forgotten how to use diplomacy and tact. He could do the courtesy of showing the one who saved him some gratitude." 

Claire licks her lips. “Is he still here?”

“Yes.” It is Foggy who answers. “He is brooding but he knows he is wrong. He will not leave until he apologizes.” Foggy pauses and adds as if in afterthought, “Our brother _excels_ at brooding. If it becomes too much, merely hit him over the head like you did before. That usually works.”

A bubble of laughter rises in Claire’s throat as the two fey grin at her conspiratorially. “Is that what one of you usually do?”

“Usually,” Karen says, with a wry glance in her other brother’s direction, who is no doubt crouched in the shadows, as per usual. “If it gets truly terrible, our Mother will deal with it.”

Claire tries to imagine the Great Mother s appearing in a flash of light and thunder, to scold her wayward son, the darkness of the forest, and finds that even a Druid’s imagination has its limits. 

Karen watches her face intently, eyes as ageless as water itself. “My brothers and I have suffered at the hands of the Romans,” she tells Claire quietly. “Yet you ask for mercy for them. Why? Your people have suffered too.”  

Claire hesitates before replying, “I have stitched up my people, Saxons, Britons and Romans. Are we not all the same under the skin?” She meets Karen’s gaze squarely. “And I have believed in you for as long as I’ve been alive. Prayed to you. Mother of rivers, do you tell me my prayers are unfounded?”

Karen is silent for a while, face unreadable. “We are fey,” she says softly. “We are ageless and forever lived. We tell ourselves and mortals that we don’t need them. And yet, we would die without them and your belief, your prayers. All mortals.” She skewers Claire with a look as sharp as spear. “We will drive these Roman invaders out,” she says. “We will keep our grove safe.” She leans forward and the smell of water fills Claire’s nose. Clean and crisp. “You will keep _our brother_ safe.” 

“If he lets me,” says Claire forbearing to point out Matt’s stubbornness.

Karen gives her an odd smile, as if Claire just said something too funny to mention. “Oh,” she says softly, “can you not see it yet, Lady? The darkness came to you and found in you light--and yet he remains.”

Then they are both gone, flickering out of sight like a doused candle. 

Blinking at their sudden disappearance, Claire and Ben look at each other.

“Now I can say that I have seen all that there is to be seen,” her mentor says lightly as he slowly stands. “I must leave you now. I need to gather the other Elders and tell them of this development.” 

Claire nods and once again offers her arm to her mentor as support as he leaves the cottage grounds. She can’t help but shoot a glance over her shoulder at the place where she thinks Matt is brooding in his other form. The darkness is deeper there and heavy. Even the moon and the stars cannot pierce it. 

“My girl. Don’t be too hard on him,” he whispers as they reach the edge of her grounds. “For all that he is the darkness of the forest and all his years, he is but a child. Like you. And he loves our people too fiercely to let harm come to them.”

“Am I not a woman grown?” asks Claire wryly and Ben chuckles. 

“Aye, you are that,” he says. “And he has the seeming of a man, at least.” Ben’s gaze sharpens and settles directly on Claire’s face, watching her like an owl. “Claire, my girl, my lady,” he says, softening his voice, “keep your heart safe.”

Claire opens her mouth to ask what he means but Ben just shakes his head. She watches him until he disappears among the trees.

Claire walks slowly back to the cottage, stepping into the bounds of the wards. Then she sighs and turns so she is out of the wards again. “You can show yourself now,” she calls out. “I’ll restitch your wound, you can apologize and then you can leave.”

For a moment, there is nothing but silence and darkness. Then the shadows ripple and solidify in front of her, Matt’s form. His face is too blank to be anything but a mask. For the first time, Claire realizes his eyes do not focus directly on her face, the mark of seeing. Instead they seem to hover at some fixed point over her head, or maybe just past her ear. If it is not for that small tell, he could pass for a sighted man. 

“I am not certain I would be welcome,” is his overly stiff reply and Claire rolls her own eyes. 

“And yet you stayed,” she replies dryly. “I don’t know about you but I think that speaks of a confidence that I will change my mind. Besides, I’m not about to let anyone I’m healing leave in such a state. I am not _wholly_ a monster.”

His head immediately turns to her with a sharp, sudden motion, like hawk scenting prey. “No part of you is monstrous,” he says so vehemently Claire’s heart jumps at his fierce denial. 

She comes close enough to touch him now and reaches out a hand. He stands unnaturally still, as if bracing for a blow, but she gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Thank you,” she says simply. “I appreciate the thought.” 

He places a hand over hers. Her wrist could fit comfortably in the hollow of his palm and they are a bit cold when compared to hers. He runs his thumb over her knuckles, tenderly and she is once again pulled in two different directions. How someone can be so ruthless and so gentle all at once, she does not know. _Guard your heart_ , Ben’s voice echoes in her head and she lets her hand drop from his. “Come. Let me mend your wound,” she says as she pulls him into her grounds. Her head turns away just as Matt’s hand hangs in the air, as if still waiting for her own.  

Matt follows her without complaint. She makes him sit on her cot again. She makes quick work of his wound, which is already healing in a pace far more quickly than a injury that serious should. She does not even have to stitch up anything. There is just an angry red line where there is once a gash. When she has finished redressing it, she stands up over him. After a moment of hesitation, she carefully cards her fingers through his surprisingly soft hair and he closes his eyes, leaning in to her hand like a cat. 

When she was a child, she remembers one star-strewn night when Ben told stories of enormous hunting cats he saw when he was yet a Roman slave. Long, sleek, powerful creatures that were spotted or as black as night, able to purr like a thunderstorm or rend a man to shreds in the blink of an eye. Seeing Matt sitting in her chair, arching up into her touch with a look of wary contentment, makes her think of nothing so much as that.  

"Your wound is healed, as I suspect you know," she says as she steps back. "You may leave if you want. Go back to your Grove and terrorize Romans or whatever it is the fey do in their idleness." She busies herself with her work table, sorting her herbs and berries to hide the slight tremble in her fingers. 

There is silence at his end and she may have thought he has left if not for the fact she has not heard him move.  

“Claire… I-- what I said earlier.” He swallows, moistens his lips. He sounds as young as Ben told her he is. “I am not good with--with mercy. No fey is. I am not excusing myself,” he adds quickly. “Perhaps… perhaps you can teach me.”

Claire turns to face him, putting her hands behind her back, so they are not _both_ distracted by her touch on his skin. “You have changed your mind about the Romans?” she inquires coolly. 

Instead of answering, Matt replies without expression, “I heard the screams of Druids who were burned alive in their sacred groves.” Claire closes her eyes to shut out the thought of it as Matt continues, “I killed two score of Romans for that depravity, but you--you--” he stops, tilting his sightless eyes back to the ceiling. “You know what they do and you ask for mercy,” he breathes. “A Druid asking mercy for _Romans_.”  

In the firelight, his eyes look like how Ben described the eyes of those hunting cats, from places so far Claire cannot begin to imagine them: clear, gold and piercing.  “I don’t understand it,” he tells her, sounding so young and lost she wishes to pull him close to her like she might any other young man seeking respite, and locks her fingers together to keep herself from doing it.  “I still don’t.” His head comes down again, golden eyes as deep as wells. “But I _want_ to,” he finishes and oh, this is the most dangerous thing in the world, Claire knows. A fey who _wants_.   

She takes a deep breath, and then another. She steps forward carefully, letting her hands spread themselves to him as if in blessing. He bows his head to accept her touch on his cheek. 

“I am the Keeper of the land,” she says, feeling the words as an oath. “Such is my duty to teach all within my steading.” His skin is rough with stubble beneath her palm and for a giddy moment, she wonder what his lips would feel like on it. “I accept you as a pupil,” she tells him. “If you would have me as a teacher.”

One large hand, not cool any longer, but warm like embers on the hearth, covers the hand resting on his cheek. “My Lady,” he names her, smiling so sweetly her heart squeezes at the sight. “I am yours to teach.” 

*

Anatoly despises the Romans. He has hated them since an army of them burned his village to ground. They have taken him away as a child of ten then but he remembers it like the way skin remembers a brand pressed to it. The way they have dragged his mother away from him and his brother.  Screaming, screaming, and then silence so abrupt the world might as well have ended. His little brother has been only five, clinging to him too afraid to speak.  They have taken as slaves then, two little boys among men, hard and cruel, mangling Greek in their rough voices.

He recalls fighting. Fighting so he and his brother will not be separated. It has paid off. They have stayed together and he has promised Vlad that they will stay together. 

At fifteen, the bastard that "owned" them told them that he could not feed them anymore and they were thrown to the Coliseum. Two half-feral, vicious boys who wanted the world to hurt as much as they did. Their rage has fueled them. It has made them survive when everybody thought they would die. 

Small wonder Rome has adored them as gladiators. Rome ever loves what hates it, as long as their appetite for blood is satisfied. 

When they were old enough to win their freedom, make their way home, the man known only as the General purchased them both from the Emperor. If they fight for the General, they promised, they could earn their freedom that much faster in the wild, green country that the Romans call Hibernia and the natives call Eire. 

Anatoly and Vlad do not care for Roman promises. All that remains is vengeance and the want of freedom. 

It is hard to say who they hate more in this enemy camp, but the prize might go to either the Commander or the General. But one more, they say to one another that night, defiantly using Greek in a camp full of Latin-speakers. One more task, and they will go, earned freedom or not. 

The trick to a successful hunt is not to stalk your prey. It is to make the prey come to you. 

The brothers are smart. They know the world is more than just the rigid rules and logic Rome would crush it to. They grew up listening to the stories of Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, Athena, Apollo. That this cool, green island should be alive with living woods and darkness does not surprise them. And what’s more, unlike the Romans, they listen to the people of this land, not merely dismiss them as they burn villages and forests. They have heard whispers of the guarding dark, and his siblings, the trees and the river. The people say the dark protects them; the dark is the one who terrorizes the Romans camps. 

They say if you need help and cry loud enough in the woods, the dark will come to you and help. 

So the brothers hunt and track the stories of the dark. This shadow has a trail. It leads to a small village just at the edge of the forest. The savages worship the woods, praise the trees, the river and the dark. What better way to gain attention of something elusive than to take what is most precious to them--their children. 

With the backing of a score of Roman soldiers, the brothers take the children. The adults scream and cry as they drag children away. Anatoly makes it clear that the soldiers not hurt the little ones (he never got over that one moment). Not yet, he says. Good hunters know when to wait. They listen. Roman soldiers always listen to their officers.

The fathers swear vengeance; the mothers appeal to their great goddess, the woods, the river and the dark. 

And they are heard. 

*

Matt listens to Claire as she prepares her supplies. There is a certain comfort to her practiced movements. It soothes him in a way that he never experienced outside of the Grove he calls home. It is dangerous for he can see himself staying here with her. 

“May I ask you a question?” Claire asks. 

He tilts his head. “Anything.”

“Before you said that there are other ways to see. What do you mean by that?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Aren’t you suppose to be the one teaching me?” He teases.

“You are quite unlike any pupil I had before.” She retorts almost playfully then her demeanor changes. He feels it in the way her muscle, tense under her skin. “And understanding is the first step to mercy.”

He straightens up and tries to think of an explanation. “The world is full of heat,” he begins, “and coolness. I stand still long enough, and the heat and cool tells me where objects are. My hearing is better too. I can hear your heartbeat, the way your clothes move when you walk, your hair over you shoulders.” He stops, tilting his head to one side in that bird like move of his. “What color is your hair?”

“Black,” Claire replies, reaching up to touch the long braid over one shoulder. “Very deep brown in the light. How do you know colors?”  

“I wasn’t always the dark,” he replies with a little smile. “When I was still a young fey, our Mother let us choose our domains.” His voice goes far away with memory. “Foggy chose the trees and Karen the river. That was their right as the oldest siblings.”  
  


"Do you hate them for it?" she asks with no hint of malice. Just a desire to understand.

Matt cocks his head again, spreading his fighter’s hands on the dirt, the sun falling on his face. The light of day looks good on him as much as the light of the moon. “No,” he says finally. “I was the one most suited to it, really. After I chose, I went to battle at Ulster.” Blind eyes stare into the sun, almost honey-gold. “I was blinded there.”

Claire draws in her breath, but Matt doesn’t look disturbed at the memory, merely contemplative. “Foggy and Karen helped me heal,” he says, still recalling. “I trained with one of the older fey after,” he tells her, “the god of stones. He,” Matt laughs without humor, “he was a cruel old bastard and I nearly killed him a few times, but I grew strong.” Matt shrugs, ducking his head, casting his face once more in shadow. “I lived,” he tells her simply. “I don’t regret it.” He turns his face to her now, a small not-quite smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I’d still give anything,” he says, “to see the sky one more time.”   

Claire digs absently in the dirt for a bit, thinking. Matt runs his fingers over one of her herbs with a sharp, clean scent. “It’s blue today,” is what she says, casually and almost careless. “But a very deep blue, like the bottom of a lake.” 

He smiles and hesitates. "May I ask a favor, My Lady?"

Her head is down, so she nods without thinking and when the silence stretches out too long, she jerks slightly. “Oh--”

“You nodded,” he guesses, laughing easily and she blushes.  "I-- My Lady, if I may so bold. I would--I would like to see you."

“How would you do that?” she asks curiously and he carefully extends a hand to her face. 

Claire scoots closer, abandoning her small shovel and Matt’s fingers, smudged with traces of dirt, brush her cheekbone. His other hand comes up, cupping her face carefully. 

Claire has felt a butterfly land on her, the merest brush of sensation, but this is even gentler. With great care, Matt traces the line of her eyebrows, her nose. One thumb feels for the curve of her upper lip and there is the faintest taste of sharp mint.

Matt’s face becomes intent now, feeling for her cheekbones, one finger brushing across her eyelashes, making her blink. Another careful thumb traces the expanse of her brow, the fine creases there. “What color are your eyes?” he asks her and she pauses, trying to give the best comparison she can. 

“Brown,” she says finally. “Very dark brown. I’m told in some lights they can look amber.”

Matt’s hands are still on her face, cradling the shape of her as if she might break if he pressed too hard. “I’ve always liked brown,” he says lightly. 

“It’s a bit of a dull color,” says Claire, matching his tone. 

Matt shakes his head thoughtfully. “Not dull at all,” he says. “Brown is the color of earth, of trees. We would perish without it.” He smiles then, sweet as any young man, and adds, “As this steading would perished without you.”   _As I would have_ , is what he does not add. But then, he does not need to. They both know he would have.   

The moment stretches between them like honey. Then there is a wind that blows through the forest and Matt's head snaps up. His siblings are calling for him. 

_Sorry to disturb your courting, dear brother_ , says Karen’s voice, cool and amused.  

 _I was not_ \-- he starts to reply vehemently, but this only gains him a mental chuckle. 

_Come back to the Grove, Matt. Trouble’s a-brewing,_ Foggy tells him. His brother’s tone becomes sly. _That is, if your Lady will let you?_

 _Go away_ , he tells his siblings and their presences vanish from his mind, leaving only the sense of amusement. 

"Matt?" Claire asks. "What is it?” 

“Trouble in the grove,” he replies, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. “My siblings need me.” Claire rises too, as Matt asks, “My Lady, have I your permission to go?”

Claire bites her lip, wondering if he can hear the pressure of teeth on skin. “I give you permission to go,” she says formally, and something in the air between them dissolves, a binding. “As long as I go with you,” she adds and Matt can’t help but grin, despite the promise of trouble. 

“I would not dream of stopping you,” he says and Claire grins in reply.  



	5. Misneach

 

 

**Draíocht**

 

_(DREE-oct). Magic, enchantment. That which is unseen._

 

Greta is not afraid. No. These men do not scare her at all. Not with the forest still looming over so close by. Aeron holds her hand tightly as Bran tries his best to protect them.

Greta remembers her Da before his sickness took him. How he spoke to them with soft words, Latin like bird song on his tongue. Not like this Latin that these soldiers speak, all rough and hard.

"You three--move it!" One of the men orders in broken Eirean.

She tries to move faster but hers legs are shorter than the other children and stumbles. She takes Aeron down with her.

"Greta! Aeron!" Bran exclaims. He attempts to help them up. But the soldier is upon them already.

"I said move it!" he roars as he pushes Bran. She gasps as her older brother hit the ground hard.

"Bran!" she cries as she and her older sister run towards him. He is bleeding and Aeron quickly rips her skirt to provide a makeshift bandage.

Greta has never felt angrier. Her heart pounds against her ribcage like a bird trying to escape. "You won’t get away with this!" she yells in what little Latin she recalls. "The dark will get you!  He’ll come for us! He always comes!”

The soldier with a whip raises it above his head threateningly and Greta squeezes her eyes shut, trying not to flinch. You’re a daughter of Eire, she tells herself. Be brave like the Lady Claire.

“Wait!” an even harsher voice calls out. “Halt!”

The whip bearing soldier stops with his arm still raised.  

Greta slowly opens her eyes. Two men are standing before her. One of them is a giant of a man, all harsh angles and dirty blond hair. She is reminded of an angry tree fey. The older man crouches down in front of her.

"What did you say little girl?" he asks. He makes some real effort to soften his voice; his Eirean is better than the other soldiers. “What do you know about the dark?”

Greta licks her lips, trying not to shake. She’s young and afraid, not stupid. “He’s--he’s the darkness of the forest,” she tells the man, proud of how steady her voice is. “And he protects us all.”

The man smiles like a snake might before eating a mouse. “Will he come for you, little one?”  

"He comes for anyone who truly believes," she maintains stubbornly.

The other man looks slightly younger and more frightening, he has a scar running down his face and over the corner of one eye. He sneers at her. “And do you believe in the dark, little girl?”

Greta raises her chin, staring at him defiantly. “You will,” she promises fiercely. “Just you watch.”

The two men (they look enough alike to be brothers) exchange glances. Then they speak in a strange language, not at all like the Latin her father taught her. Then the older man stops speaking to the younger and smiles at Greta.

"Well wee one. I hope you are correct."

*

The Grove is a sacred place. Filled with the purest of magic. When the Great Mother has created them, she has built this place as a respite. A place to hear the people's prayers. He always feels more alive in it than anywhere else. Except perhaps...

He tilts his head slightly to the side listens carefully to Claire who is following closely behind him. "We are almost there."

"I know," she replies, "the essence of magic is stronger here." She smiles at him and it is like a burst of sunshine. "It feels magnificent."

He hums his agreement and offers his hand as they are about to step into the threshold of the Grove. She takes it, entwining her slender fingers through his.

He is assaulted by cries of help when he steps into the hallowed grounds. He almost buckles under the weight of it.  “What happened?" he asks, pulling Claire along. Her hand keeps him grounded and he dares not to let go of it. He is afraid he will be lost in the swirl of prayers otherwise.

His brother and sister appear in a creak of branches and the sound of rushing water. "A whole village," Foggy replies. "They cry for help."

"The Romans. They took all the children," Karen informs them in a grim tone.

It is Claire who ask the question."All the children? Why?"

"I think they are trying to gain our attention." Foggy answers, wryly.

Matt sometimes wonder how his older brother can remain so calm upon hearing such atrocity when he can barely keep the anger under his skin. Matt growls out, "Well they have it now."

Claire gives his hand a squeeze. Reassuring and firm. "What should we do?" she asks Foggy and Karen.

“The whole village has been praying,” Karen replies, her robes swirling around her, an outward signal of her agitation. “The more they cry out, the more disturbed the Grove becomes. My brothers and I must act.”  

"I want to help," Claire says immediately, as Matt knew she would. He wishes it was that simple.

“You can help by going back to your steading, My Lady, to tend the parents there," Foggy replies in a neutral tone.

Matt feels her tense beside him at the implication. But Matt does not disagree with his brother, for all that he knows Claire’s strength. She is powerful in her own right but this is different. There are no wards to protect her and if it comes to physical strength, Claire is at a disadvantage. She must be able to sense what he thinks, because she withdraws her hand from his. He immediately misses the contact. He turns to face her.

“My Lady…”

“No. Don’t,” she says sharply, pulling away from him already. “I’m not fey,” she says plainly, almost pacing. He can hear her robes whipping back and forth along with her movements. “I have no powers, no immortality,” she goes on, her voice snapping sharp. She stops then in front of him, and in the magnified power of the Grove, he feels her power like a Beltane bonfire in front of his face. “But this is _my_ land, those are _my_ children.” Her voice now rises dangerously. “My land!” she shouts. “ _My_ people, _my_ steading! And you want me to just go back and heal!"

By now, her voice sounds like the roar of the ocean in a storm. Matt has heard stories of Druids who can move mountains and level rivers when their power is fully roused. He can’t imagine Claire doing any less.

Foggy’s voice whispers in his head, _Matt, I know you don’t regret being blind, but by Danu, I wish you could see her._

 _So do I,_ he tells his brother fervently.

It is Karen who steps into the breach. She lays one hand on Claire’s arm, cool as the river. Her face is as pale as the moon and as ageless, but Karen’s voice matches Claire’s in it’s intensity. “Do you still believe in mercy for the Romans?”

Claire’s face twists and Foggy and Karen watch as her gaze drifts to Matt’s. Matt is not good at catching the shifts in people’s expressions, so they are the ones who watch as Claire’s face struggles with rage, tenderness and confliction. She speaks directly to Matt then: “Mercy? Yes but not for them,” she whispers. “Not for those that would take children, for attention.”

Matt leans forward like he is straining to be unleashed. “Would you have me find them?” he asks, full of savage, leaping excitement. Darkness stirred to joy.

Claire shudders and her hands coil into fists at her sides. “You kill them all and our people will suffer the reprisal,” she reminds him. Her eyes meet Matt’s, as sightless as his are. “Bring back the children,” she says, not quite a command, but not a request. “Bring them back and I will be ready for them, with healing and their families.

“As for the men who did this…” she looks into their faces one by one, immortal, ageless and powerful beyond reckoning.

“They must not be killed,” she says again. “I said nothing about making them _suffer_.”  

*

The girl has finally stopped crying. If it’s up to Vlad, the child would have been knocked unconscious long ago. His brother, however, has other plans.

A child’s prayers are the strongest and she cannot pray if she is unconscious, brother, Anatoly told him.

Easy for him to say. Anatoly is not the one guarding the brat. She kicked and screamed when they took her from her siblings. Now she’s sniffling pitifully, and rubbing her eyes with the sleeve of her tunic.

"You done with your racket?" he asks her irritably in Eirean.

She turns a defiant face to him, still amusingly unbroken. "He will get you,” she assures him for what it probably the hundredth time. “The dark is coming for you.”

Even iron-clad Roman logic wavers in the face of fervent Eirean belief. But Vlad is no Roman, so it is no trouble to reach down and pat the little girl on the head, like he might a kitten. She actually snarls and tries to bite him; he casually backhands her. “Vlad!” his brother barks from over the fire. “Enough.”   

"You’re getting soft big brother," he says. At his feet the child whimpers only once. Then she sucks in a deep breath and spits blood on his feet.

For a moment, Vlad thinks about kicking her. Then he laughs, impressed in spite of himself. “You would’ve made a good gladiator,” he tells the little Eirean spitfire. “Or a gladiatrix, we called them.”

She glowers at him. “I know what a gladiator is,” she tells him. “Our da was Roman.”

Now Vlad crouches down to meet her gaze. “You are half Roman, and you believe in such things as the darkness of the forest?”

Greta swallows down blood, sharp and sweet and salty on her tongue. “I’ve met the darkness of the forest,” she says. “You don’t stand a chance.”

“Little one,” he tells her with a smile, creasing the scar over his eye, “wait until he sees _us._ ”

He doesn’t understand why she laughs.

*

Claire doesn't think that her cottage have been filled with this many people before. Mothers are crying for their children and she tries to comfort them the best she can.

Matt has dropped her off her ground's outer limits, touching his forehead against hers in something like an embrace, but not quite.

“I will bring them back,” he vows to her, his hands digging into her upper arms. “I swear this to you, by the Wolf, the Moon and my own name.”

“I know your name already,” she reminds him, not willing to make him let go of her just yet.

He smiles lopsidedly at her. “My true name,” he says. “I’ll tell it to you, sometime. Maybe.”   

The enormity of such a promise is not lost on her. Names have power. She rises up to her tiptoes. Using his shoulders as leverage, she leans up to place a soft kiss against his cheek. "For luck."

He touches the spot where her lips landed and nods. "My Lady." He says with a tilt of his head before he disappears into the shadows.

Feeling like a soldier’s wife, she lets only one hand touch her lips. His skin had been soft, the unshaved beard rough by turns, but not--unpleasant, by any means.

She wonders what it would feel like on the rest of her skin.

Shaking off what has to be the most inappropriate thought in the world when her steading is in uproar, Claire returns to the parents. They cling to her hands and ask for reassurance, and she gives it, over and over again. Yes, the woodland feys will bring your children back, yes the Romans will pay for it, yes, the children will returned unharmed.

The night goes by, the stars turn overheard. It’s the darkest part of the night now. She is so busy with everything that she fails to hear it until most of the people are saying it. Two of the children have returned.

“Mam! Ma!” childish voices shriek. Gilda cries out and rushes out of the cottage wards, heedless of danger. Bran and Aeron stagger in, crashing into their mother’s arms.  

Bran and Aeron look worse for wear. But their voices are strong and unwavering, as panicked and frightened as they are. "They got her, ma! They got Greta! They let all of the other children go but they took Greta. It's a trap!"

“A trap?” someone says and a babble of voices fill the air until Ben’s thunder of a voice rises above the crowd.

“Silence!”

Claire forces her way forward, careless of elbows and knees. Bran and Aeron turn frightened, wide-eyed faces to her. “A trap for who, children?” she asks, though the sinking pit that is her stomach tells her the answer.

“The dark,” says Aeron, clutching at her mother. “They want to trap the dark.”


	6. Sona

  
**Draíocht**  


_(DREE-oct). Magic, enchantment. THAT WHICH IS UNSEEN._  


_Do you hear that?_ Matt says over his mental connection to his siblings.  


They are traversing the forest to the spot where the wind told them where the children are. The little ones are mostly together with a few scattered at the far edge of the forest. 

_Hear what?_ Foggy asks. 

_Somebody's calling me. A prayer. A strong one_.

Matt knows every voice that calls to him; this one is a voice he recognizes recently.  

_Where?_ Karen asks. 

_“Darkness, where are you, darkness, help me, darkness they are bad men--”_

_Greta,_ he tells his siblings, lengthening his stride. It is opposite where the wind leads us.

_Matt, wait_ , Foggy protests as his younger brother veers in the opposite direction. _It could be a trap, just--_

Matt streaks ahead of his siblings, missing the rest of Foggy’s words. 

*

"My Lady, be reasonable. You cannot go there by yourself," one of the mothers protest as Claire throws herbs, cords and crystals into her bag.  

"The darkness is a foolish fey who will die before he does not bring back your daughter,” she says angrily, as furious with herself as she is with the Romans--and on a certain level, Matt as well. “And I _sent_ him to do it. So yes, I think I _will_ go and I will bring them _all_ home, so _get out of my way_.” 

The villagers all edge backwards, except Ben. Their Lady Claire has a long temper but it is a sight to behold when it finally sparks. 

Claire spreads salt and iron at the doorstep of her cottage. Muttering under her breath, she strengthens the wards until _demons_ couldn’t get in--and at this point, she’s taking no chances. 

She takes a deep breath. Let the power from the Earth fill her. “This I choose to do,” she mutters as power rises like a flood. “This I _choose_ to do. This is a path I choose to walk, this is a death I choose to die. This I choose to do.”

She raises her head to the sky. And her people are as silent as stars around her. "Show me the path to her." 

Wisps appear on the forest floor as the spell ignites. The fastest path to Greta is shown to her. She walks towards one and touches it lightly. The familiar feeling of being pulled in the gut overcomes her as the surroundings blur and once everything settles, her steading is gone and is replaced by the dense forest. A few paces ahead she can a weak campfire. That is where they are holding Greta.

Claire is but a mortal however the land yields to her in ways that even the fey will envy. 

She takes a step forward. 

*

The Commander sniffs derisively as he arrives at the brothers' camp and Anatoly barely stops Vlad from throttling the man. It is not time yet. A good hunter knows how to wait. 

"This is your great plan? A little girl and some iron and crystals." He sneers. 

Anatoly tilts his head and the corners of his lips without any joy. "Commander, might I remind you that it is the General who chose us to do this task. If you have any complaints I suggest you take it up to him." 

There is satisfaction in the way the bastard's face turns from smug to scowling.

"Is there any progress?" The Commander asks.

Vlad opens his mouth to make some scathing insults but hears something from the edge of their set up. It is a barely there sound. A rustle of cloth. He glances at the suddenly too quiet child and knows something is up. He signals to his older brother. 

Vlad grins, feral and infernal. "There is now." 

*

Greta does not like the new man. He wears full Roman armor and stands too straight. He talks too fast in Latin and the brothers look at him like wolves do when they see a enemy. 

_They don’t like him_ , she realizes. _He’s their enemy too_. 

Her head snaps when she hears an odd sound. Almost like a cricket but not really. More like the sound a root makes when it snaps deep in the earth. The three men are still bickering above her head, though the younger one, the scarred man, keeps scanning the trees for something. _I hope the tree fey eats you_ , Greta thinks viciously.  

But then she sees it. The Lady Claire's face. In that moment, she looks utterly terrifying, half fey herself. But the Lady Claire slides soundless through the trees, skirting through the shadows.

_The dark will come_ , Greta thinks. _The dark will come for his Lady_." 

Her heart begins to race when she hears the younger brother say ' _There is now._ ' She hears someone scream. 

It takes her a while to realize it is her.

*

_Idiot, fool, stupid, stupid_ stupid--

Claire calls herself every name she can think of and a few she heard from Ben. There was iron and quartz crystal and salt, set in a distinct pattern all around Greta. She _knows_ it, and what’s worse, she knows what it’s _for_.

_Suppressing magic. Trapping fey_. 

Greta’s shriek scalds like hot water and three men outside the pattern all react to the sound. The Roman lunges for his sword and the two blond men, alike enough to be brothers, lunge as hunting wolves toward her.

Claire barely has enough time to blink before hands like traps land on her arms, pulling and she is thrown in the center with Greta. The child clings to her, shaking. “Hush, hush,” Claire murmurs automatically, letting the child clutch her tightly.   

"Is this the dark, wee one?" one of the blond men asks in startlingly good Eirean, before throwing an amused glance to the Roman soldier. "She looks _terrifying_.”

The other blond, the left side of his face marked with a scar, guffaws. "I see how you are bested, _Commander_." 

The soldier says something in Latin that makes the other two stop. But the amused expressions on their faces remain. She knows a bit of Latin but the meaning of that word eludes her

"This is no shadow," the Commander comments. "Just a pagan druid." 

Claire lets her lips peel back from her teeth. Let them believe that. She does not waste words bandying with any of them. She pulls Greta into the circle of her arms. 

“Will he come?” Greta whispers, so quiet Claire almost missed it. “Will the dark come?”

Claire lets her lips settle on the child’s forehead. “Of course he will,” she murmurs back. “Of course.” Though she wishes he won't. She wants him safe. 

"Druids can speak directly to the fey," the older, unscarred blond man says. "We can persuade this one to call out."

The three men all turn to look at Claire. She raises her chin, refusing to be cowed. 

The Roman releases an exasperated breath. “Fine,” he says impatiently. “Get on with it.

"And kill the child,” the Roman adds, as if an afterthought. “We’ve wasted enough time here.” Greta lets a tiny sob but doesn’t make another sound.

The brothers turn to stare at the Roman. “We don’t kill children,” says the older one flatly.  

Claire is surprised by the answer. She slowly gets to her feet, pushing Greta behind her. With one hand, she grips the bare iron blade of her small knife and lets the edge cut into her palm. Blood magic is dangerous but it is more powerful and it will work even with the circle suppressing her.

“You will do as you are bid,” the Roman says flatly and slowly, moving as one striking snake, the brothers turn on him. 

“We. Don’t. Kill _children_ ,” the scarred man bites out. “We are not _Romans_.”

“If you want your freedom,” says the Roman icily, “you will do as you’re told.”  

"You do not lord over us," the older brothers replies, one hand falling on his sword.

Overheard, the trees creak and the river moans, and darkness stirs. 

The two brothers advance on the Roman, weapons out. The Roman Commander unsheathes his own sword, body tensing for a fight. 

The scarred brother lets out a bone-chilling howl and attacks. All three men fight each other like trapped wolves. 

"Close your eyes,” Claire tells Greta, letting blood, hot and slick, slide through her fingers. “Don’t open them ‘til I say.” Blood burns like a fire in her hand.  “Greta," Claire says as the clang of iron against iron rings through the still night. “Keep your eyes closed.”

She raises her voice. “You want to know the dark’s name?” she asks. The three men all halt to stare at her. She smiles, teeth sharp. “Ask him yourself.” 

Iron and quartz explodes. 

* 

_Matt!_ Karen’s voice is a hiss. _The Lady Claire! They have her!_

Matt bites back a curse. That woman will be the death of him. He isn’t even sure how she _found_ them, but there is nothing for it now.  

He pushes himself to go faster. The ground pours away underneath him.

That’s when the explosion happens. It lights up the forest with heat and noise. For a moment Matt is truly blind. He can dimly register Foggy and Karen also recoiling away from the chaos. 

His mind only has one thought. _Claire_.

*

There is a ringing in her ears. Claire, thrown backwards by the force of her spell, slowly sits up from where she landed. Greta, huddled underneath Claire, pokes her head out, eyes the size of coins. “Can you teach _me_ how do that?” she whispers, awed.  

Claire coughs out a laugh. “Greta if we get out of this, I’ll teach you.” 

She uses a nearby tree to stand up. Greta scrambles upright, apparently none the worse for (nearly) being killed. “Are they dead?” she asks with probably a little too much hope that is appropriate for a child. 

The answer come in the form of a groan and then a snarled curse. One of the blonde men is still alive. Greta clutches her robes. 

The scarred man has multiple deep gashes from a sword and from the explosion. 

Claire is a Druid, Claire is a healer. Enemy or not, _Roman_ or not, everything in her revolts at leaving a man so gravely injured. Even a man such as this. 

_He took the children_ , she tells herself, _reminds_ herself. _He does not deserve it_. 

_He would not kill Greta and he would have died for it_.

_I spoke about mercy_.   

The decision comes instantly. 

“Greta. Listen. I need to help him,” she tells the child, pointing at the wounded man. “I need you to help turn him over.”

The little girl looks like Claire has run mad but Greta has grown up to follow a Druid’s commands, regardless how she feels about it. They make their way upright, unsteadily going over to the fallen man. The man must weigh twenty stones at least, but they manage to roll him on his back. Claire almost wishes she could tell Greta to turn her face away, but there is no help for it now. 

“I need you to put your hands on the wound,” she tells Greta, pulling out her bone needle and thread. “Press down on it, try to stop the bleeding.” She can’t see the Commander anywhere and she needs work fast. She threads her needle and begins pulling the flesh together, not able to do it gently.  

“This man told me I can be a gladiatrix,” Greta says, staring at the needle going through the man’s flesh. She sounded almost--pleased, and a little proud. “I don’t think they’re Roman. They speak an odd language.”

Claire can’t imagine what _else_ they could be, but she concentrates on the wound. “They were-- _kind_ to you?”

Greta looks darkly at the near unconscious man. “He hit me,” she says grimly. “...After I tried to bite him,” she adds, in the spirit of fairness.   

There is a rustle behind them and Claire jerks, pulling the needle and thread sharply. The scarred man stirs and groans again. His older brother lurches upright. He sees Claire and Greta kneeling next to his brother. “What are you doing?” he rasps, staggering forward. “Get away from him--”

“We are trying to close his wound.” Claire replies, as the man loses his footing and lands painfully on the ground. “You need to sit down. Moving will have made you worse.”

“I’m already dead, Druid,” he spits out. He stares at the body of his unconsciously brother. “We’re both dead now,” he says flatly. 

Claire is nearly at the end of the younger man’s wound. “Not if I have any say about it,” she mutters.   

The older brother snorts. “I like your spirit, Druid,” he coughs out blood, smiling sourly. “Not that it will do you much good.”

“If you can’t be helpful, be quiet,” Claire snaps, as she pauses in her stitching to check the older man’s injury.  There is too much blood but he is right. He is dead. The sword has went through his body two times, it probably pierced most of his vitals. No healer can save anyone from an internal injury this severe. 

“Mend my brother,” the older one says, gazing into his brother’s face. “He should live.”

Claire does not waste her breath arguing. She finishes stitching the younger brother’s wound, pulling the thread tight and making a less-than neat knot. She can fix it later, when they get out of here. 

_If_ they get out of here. 

“Wee one, come here,” the older brother calls Greta. The child gives him a wary glance and he laughs raggedly. “If I wanted to hurt you child, I would have done it already.”

Greta inches a bit closer. Claire watches as the older brothers fumbles at his side, grabbing the sword he dropped earlier. With a grunt, he takes the handle and shoves it Greta.  

“You give that to Vlad. Tell him you’re going to be gladiatrix,” he growls out impatiently. “ _Take_ it, wee one.” 

The sword is too long and heavy for Greta, but she takes it anyway. Her hands looks small around the hilt, but she holds it like she knows what to do with it. The older brother watches her in satisfaction. “Aye. You will make a good one. Vlad will make a fine teacher.”

He’s breathing shallowly now.“Your dark,” he rasps out. “Can he kill the General?”

“Yes,” Claire says, laying all her faith and trust and hope in the word. “Yes, he can.” 

The older brother lets his head fall back, his body slumped on the ground. Anatoly looks at foreign trees, unknown stars. “Then he had better,” he says, “or I’ll know why.” He doesn’t feel hurt anymore. That is something. “Tell Vlad,” he says, as darkness comes to take, like falling asleep, “tell my brother--tell him I’m free.”  



	7. Uisce

Matt, Foggy and Karen arrive like vengeance taken form, only to find Claire and Greta trying to pull a body upright. Greta sees them first. Her whole face melts with relief. “They’re here!” she cries. “The woods, the river!” She sees Matt and her smile is light. “Stranger!” she calls. “You’re the--”  


The Commander rises as if he came up from a grave and yanks Claire backwards. The scarred brother collapses on the ground, nearly on top of Greta. The little girl shrieks as all three feys tense. A growing growl emanates from Matt.

Claire feels cold, sharp metal glide across her throat. “Do not move,” the Commander says, dragging her backwards. Her heels scrape against the dirt. “No one move.”  

Foggy places a hand on Matt’s shoulder. They do not need him to start acting rashly. _Stand down Matt._ His younger brother snarls, but does not move. Every nerve of him is pulled tight enough to snap. 

The tree fey takes one step forward, hands held out in a gesture of peace. Karen surges at his side, eyes fixed on the weapon at Claire’s throat. “Be warned, Roman,” says Foggy, voice a rumble of warning. “You harm her and you have the wrath of every tree, river and shadow in Eire on your head.” 

The Commander’s lip curls contemptuously at this threat. “Then we burn every forest, dam every river and keep the torches burning,” he says, still moving backwards, Claire’s head tilted back at a painful angle. But she does not make a sound. 

"Tree can be regrown, child. Dams can be destroyed," Foggy says moving forward slowly. "And torchlights can only do so m--"

One of Claire’s free hands has found her small iron blade. With all the agility she can muster, she drives it into the Roman’s side. He jerks and stumbles, the blade digging into Claire’s throat.

Karen moves swiftly. There is a gurgling noise behind Claire’s head, a man in deep water. He drops his sword as he claws at his throat. Claire breaks herself free of his loose hold. She stumbles to the ground, Matt lunging forward to catch her. She turns, him holding her by the arms, watching in shock. Foggy snatches up Greta and pushes her behind him 

Karen advances on him, blue and silver robes swirling. She raises one long, slim elegant hand and makes an upward gesture. More water bubbles out his mouth. The Commander is sinking to his knees, clutching his throat. His face is shocked, disbelieving as he stares at them. 

Karen's face is hard as an iced over lake as she watches the light go out of his eyes. “Here is what you don’t know Roman,” she tells the dying man softly. “Water is _patient_. Water always wins.” 

The Commander slumps over in a puddle of water, leaking out to the circle of iron, quartz and salt. 

*

Once the children are all gathered, Claire takes each of them to their parents. One by one, the people of the steading make their way for home. By then, the dawn was coming up over the rim of the world.

Matt never left her side once, a hand tucked in her elbow, as if reassuring himself she was still there. They never had time to talk; what with getting Greta and the other children safely away and forming a makeshift stretcher for the wounded scarred man. Claire still wasn’t sure what to do with him yet, nor did she know how to break the news of his brother’s death once he regained consciousness.  

Gilda and her children run madly over to Greta when she returns, even though Greta is waving a Roman sword, almost as long as her. They welcome her with warm hugs and kisses, the sword clattering to the ground, momentarily forgotten. Claire directs Matt and Foggy to put the wounded man in her cot, the same place Matt himself occupied not two days earlier. 

"Another one My Lady?" Ben asks dryly, eyeing the newest addition. 

"I have an unfortunate habit of finding wounded men," she retorts. 

“Are we taking in Romans now?” asks Foggy. He and Matt had helped Claire with the wounded man with no complaints, though they were still eyeing him suspiciously. 

Ben crouches to survey him. “He’s wearing gladiator garb,” he says finally. “And no true Roman is that light-haired.”

“He's not Roman," Greta pipes up from under her mother's arm. “His brother called him Vlad.”

“Greek,” says Ben, studying him still. “A Greek gladiator, then. He will hate Rome and all she stands for.” He looks up at Claire. “We may have gained an ally.” 

"He must stay here until he regains consciousness. Hopefully he will listen to reason," Claire says. She swallows hard. “And I--I must tell him about his brother.”

“Then I am staying with you,” Matt says flatly. “If he proves--difficult. You might need the help.”

Claire bites her tongue about making any kind of comments about her ability to handle wounded men, but she nods. “Thank you.” 

"Lady Claire, can you summon me when he wakes? I have to tell him that his brother wanted him to train me as a gladiatrix," says Greta, snuggling contentedly in her mother’s side. 

Claire shakes her head and replies, “I will certainly tell him,” and Greta nods off, satisfied.

Gilda's family and Elder Ben say their goodbyes and shuffle out of the ground. “Get some sleep, my lady,” Ben calls to Claire. “You will need your strength come morning.” 

Predawn silence settles over the cottage. "This isn’t over, is it?" Claire asks.

"Not even close," Karen replies. "Not with the Roman General still on the loose. I was in the river next to their camp. They were talking how the General expected the Commander to bring the shadow back to him, _alive_.” Matt’s face hardens at the thought, but his sister keeps talking. “They say the General was expecting him back by dawn.” Karen glances east, a small, smug smiles pulling at her mouth. “He isn’t expecting him _now_ , I imagine.” 

A yawn erupts from Claire mouth, unbidden. The long hours and all that has happened are taking a toll on her. Her face colors with embarrassment.

Foggy tilts his head. “Sleep, Lady,” he says, his round, kind face creases into a smile. “We will watch over you, my siblings and I.”

Claire catches Matt’s eye. He has barely spoken to her since they left the woods. “Well,” she says, unable to keep some dryness from her tone, “I am comforted.”

Matt’s head swerves like a hawk’s to face her. “Why were you even _in_ the woods?” he demands. “Did I not _promise_ you I would bring the children back?” 

_Matt…_ his brother’s voice is a warning at the same time with his sister's. _Don’t be foolish now._

He shuts their voices out. His siblings look at each other and shrug. _What do you wager she throws him out of the cottage again?_ Foggy asks Karen dryly. 

_No wager there, brother_ , is Karen’s equally wry response. _They’re either going to kill each other or kiss and I don’t want to be here when either happens_. 

_When, not if?_

Karen eyes the slowly rising wrath on Claire’s face. _Definitely when_.

The two fey fade out of the cottage wards without either Claire or Matt noticing. 

*

Claire cannot believe what she is hearing. "You are not _my_ Keeper. I can do what I please. Especially when it concerns my people." 

Matt looks as if he would like to _do_ something--either beat her over the head or throttle her, whichever one comes first. He begins to pace back and forth, much like Claire had--had it _only_ been last night?

"You're infuriating, do you know?” he finally gets out. “The most stubborn, crack-brained, impossible--”

“You _ingrate_ ,” Claire shouts, rising to her full height in a towering fury. “I was going there to _warn_ you!”  

"I don't need your warning! I need you to be safe!" Matt roars back. 

“They had a trap designed for fey!” Claire yells. “The only reason you didn’t stumble right into it is because I set it off too early with blood--”

Matt lunges across the space between them, grabbing Claire by the arms, not painfully at least, but most certainly firm. “Are you _mad_?” he asks, appalled. “Blood magic could’ve killed you!”

Claire fights down the urge to kick him in the shin like a five-year old. “I _know_ that! But it suppressed magic and it was the only thing I could think of to break it! I cannot have you trapped and helpless!" 

He looks outraged. “I am _fey_ , woman! Do you think any mere mortal magic is enough to _bind_ me?”

“Seeing as how I met you when you were half _dead_ from a Roman blade, forgive me if I am not entirely convinced of your invulnerability,” Claire bites out. She presses on, “This was _Eirean_ magic. Our people’s power, done by men who understood _something_. It might not have worked perfectly, but it doesn’t take long to put a _blade_ in your ribs!” Her voice rises like it did in the grove, the sea raging against itself. “And I _will not have you harmed_! Not if I could stop it!” 

"Better me than you, Claire," he says quietly now, fire gone dangerously out. “The steading could not survive without you.”

 _Idiot man_. Claire steps forward, the skirt of her robe brushing his legs. “I cannot survive without the land,” she reminds him. “Have you forgotten? I tell the land what it is and the land tells me what I am. You are part of the land, Matt. What would I do,” she demands, voice going tight with grief and frustration, “if _you_ were gone?”   

His face is dazed with realization and emotion. The hands on her arms have made their way up to her shoulders. 

The air shakes with tension between them. 

“Listen to me,” she says, voice dark with promise, with _intent_ , “If it is within my power, I will do whatever it takes, whatever is necessary to help you. If it means risking my life, so be it. Do you understand, Mattt?”

His eyes close, slowly. “I--I understand,” he says finally. “Though I don’t know _why_.” 

“You’re a very slow man,” Claire informs him, her throat strangely tight. The night had been so long and her feelings were spinning in every direction. 

A strangled laugh escapes him then, as he lets his forehead rest against hers again. Then he presses his lips to her hairline, warm breath stirring goosebumps. “Impossible woman,” he says, but there’s no heat to it now, just a fond kind of exasperation and exhaustion. 

A tiny chuff of laughter escapes Claire, dying into a gasp when he kisses each of her eyelids, light as butterflies' wings. Then he travels downwards, the bridge of her nose, making her smile, then the high ridges of her cheekbones. Further up once more, to the soft place behind her ear.

Claire’s whole body shakes, sways and nearly collapses into him. Impatient with this teasing, she reaches up one hand to grasp his chin and firmly guide his mouth to hers. 

It is dawn and honey and starlight. Matt's lips are surprisingly soft and pliant under hers, and Claire can’t tell whose body is swaying more into the other’s now. She places her hand on his chest, searching for a heartbeat. From what seems like a very far distance away, she can hear birdsong. 

It’s over before she realizes it, pulling back to look at him in the light of a new day. In the dawn, he is washed with gold and shadow, and Claire’s heart squeezes tightly as a fist. 

“Well,” she says, resting her head against his neck, too weary for disassembling, “this has solved nothing.”

Matt’s long, clever fingers comb through her hair. “No,” he agrees, resting his cheek on top of her head, “but what does it matter?”

Lulled by a steady heartbeat and fingers through her hair, Claire lets herself fall into soft, deep darkness with a warm voice. The last thing that registers is two strong arms lifting her, and the voice saying, “I’m here, I have you.”

*

The Commander’s body is brought back to camp, soaking wet. There were no rivers near him.

The General says nothing as he examines the body. His face is carved stone for all the emotion it shows.  

"It's as if he has drowned," one of the soldiers dares to say, eyeing the General nervously. The General does not fight with a gladius, like most Roman soldiers. He carries a long spear instead, wrought with iron and a heavy foreign wood, more like a staff. Too many men have died along the point of it.

“What about the trap?” he says and the unfortunate speaker replies, “It was empty, sir. Nothing there but blood and wa--.” 

Blood gurgles from the man's throat before he even finishes his report. The General pulls his spear out of the soldier, letting him fall to the ground like so much rubbish.  Every centurion in range backs away, orders or not. The Commander was the only one who could reason with the General, even with limited success. With him gone, no soldier wants to think about what happens now. 

He clicks his tongue. “I want every grove on this march burned,” the General announces to the camp. “Every temple, every shrine. I want the earth _soaked_ with Druid blood.” 


	8. Fios

Claire wakes up strangely feeling rested for being in front of her hearth. There is something solid behind her, enveloping her with warmth. Warm lips settle on the crown of her head. “Good morrow, my Lady,” Matt’s voice says softly. “A new day.”

Claire rolls over in his arms, smiling foolishly. The furs are underneath her, comfortable and plush. “A very _nice_ way to begin the new day,” she tells him, letting herself press up against him. Even with the embers of the fire at her back, he is as warm as summer.   

He hums, pulls her even closer. Claire tilts her face up for a kiss.

A shattering noise behind them, a man’s voice hoarse and rough, cursing in what Claire can only guess is Greek. Matt is on his feet in a moment, pushing Claire behind him protectively. 

The cursing goes on, increasing in frustration and volume. “That sounds pretty bad,” says Matt dryly, “but I don’t speak asshole.”   

Claire presses her face against his shoulder, hoping he can feel her eyeroll and pushes him aside. She walks towards the wounded man and calls on the wards to help her. Vlad ceases his thrashing. She places a hand on his chest. His body is littered with scars. "Calm down. You are safe," she says firmly. “I know you can understand Eirean,” she tells him sternly. “So stop that racket.”

“My brother,” he demands, not appearing to have heard her. “Where is my brother?”

Claire licks her lips. He looks very much like a helpless child now. An angry, frightened  child, which is worse. “I need you to be calm,” she says quietly. “You’ll pull my stitches out and you’ll be holding your guts in both hands.” 

“I want--my brother,” he says, but he stops moving. 

She kneels down to be at the same level as Vlad. She takes a deep breath. "Your brother... Your brother is free. He wanted me to tell you that.” 

Vlad becomes utterly still, not even a muscle twitching. She can tell without looking Matt is the same way. “You--you lie,” he rasps out, but there’s no conviction to it. She can see the realization breaking over him. 

“I don’t lie,” Claire replies quietly. “Your brother is free. The Roman freed him.”

Vlad stares at the ceiling of the cottage, eyes unblinking. Without any warning at all, he lets out a howl that makes the hairs on the back of Claire’s neck stand up--like a banshee hailing death. He starts spitting out words, curses in his language again. Tears are spilling out of his eyes.

Matt's hands land on her shoulders, pulling her away. “Leave him,” he tell her quietly. “Leave him be for now.”

She shakes her head and removes Matt's hand from her. She tentatively places a hand over Vlad's and squeezes his massive hand. The man glances at her before closing his eyes. Silent sobs rack his body.

She stays with him, running her hand through his light colored hair and murmurs soft words of comfort. 

The Greek stiffens for a moment before letting the sobs overtake him again. Out of respect, Matt quietly drifts out, letting him mourn in privacy.

*

Marci is just a girl of six and ten but the gift is within her and now that Druid Zax has passed, his position and all his responsibilities are passed down to her. 

The village knows and respects Marci. She is sharp-tongued to everyone, impatient with fools, but fair. She is not always _kind_ , but she is a good druid and the village prospers with her. She wakes up with the sun to begin her duties. The Tree Fey has been kind to their village and it is to him that they offer their prayers and sacrifices. She walks to the grove that their ancestors have built with the incense that they burn for prayers. She has barely stepped into the hallowed ground before the flames start. 

She lets out a shriek as the altar catches on fire. Her first instinct is to save  the oak wood bearing the carved face of the Tree Fey but a hand covers her mouth and pulls her back. 

_Romans_ , she realizes, eyes wide with panic. They have never made a move against them before, their village is buried too deep in the woods, too remote and too docile. They have nothing the Romans would want, not even taxes. 

The soldier holding her down cannot be more than a couple of years older than her. He looks just as frightened, just as miserable. “I’m sorry,” he whispers shakily to her. “I’m so sorry. May Minerva guide you.” 

Something pierces her side, sharp and bright and it _hurts_ and Marci slides into darkness watching fire consume the sacred oak. 

Five leagues away, Elena of the Rivers holds her ground, sixty summers and winters to her name, and bringing curses down on the heads of the Romans with torches. She dies with a spear in her side and insulting the General’s mother. 

No Roman centurion looks the other in the eye after.  

*

Matt feels the arrival of his siblings long before Claire. Foggy’s amusement is so thick you could cut it with a knife. Karen is ever so slightly more restrained but delights flickers in and out of her thoughts.    

“Brother,” Foggy greets. “How is our _guest_?”

“He’s in mourning Fog,” Matt replies softly. “Claire just told his brother died.”  

“Is that why you’re sitting out here, brooding?” Karen asks, sweetly sharp. 

“I’m _not brooding_ ,” Matt says, for what is probably literally the millionth time between him and his siblings. They both just grin like the pair of moon-mad fools they are. “I hate you both,” he tells them grumpily and they promptly tackle him in an embrace.  

“Just because she’s spending time with another man, that doesn’t mean she finds you less appealing,” Foggy says, ruffling Matt’s hair.

“Though I have heard very nice things about Greeks,” Karen says thoughtfully. “They know _wonderful_ poetry.”

“ _And_ songs,” Foggy puts in. 

“Oh well,” Karen sighs, mock sadly. “The Lady Claire will probably come to her senses about you soon enough anyway.”

“I _hate_ you,” Matt says with all the dignity he can muster, given Foggy has him in a headlock, so he jabs one fist into his brother’s ribs. Foggy lets go with a wheeze and Karen spins out of Matt’s path as he grabs for her.   

Claire steps out of the cottage. “Should I come back another time?” she says, lips twitching. Matt can hear the bemused smile in her voice.  

“Oh Lady Clair--”

Matt senses Foggy’s abrupt shift of demeanor. The tree fey suddenly doubles over as if in extreme pain. He is gasping for breath, clutching his chest. 

“Foggy!” Karen springs to their brother’s side but collapses to her own knees, head in her hands. 

Alarmed, Claire moves to their sides but Matt is there in between his siblings, already pulling them in close. “What?” he demands. “What is it?”

Foggy and Karen’s breathing is labored and eerily in tandem. “Marci,” says Foggy at the same time Karen moans, “Elena,” their voices overlapping strangely. “Gone,” they say as one, their faces full of grief.

Claire puts a hand over her mouth in shock. She knew them both, Marci and Elena, two druids of the forest villages. Marci was dedicated to the trees and so young. Elena had spent most of her life in service to the river.  

“The Romans?” she asks.

“Who else?” Matt snaps, trying to help his siblings find their balance again. They both look unnervingly young, clinging to their brother as if they are afraid he might vanish. 

Claire glances back to her cottage, where Vlad is. He isn’t much of a threat in his current condition, but she’d feel better if there was someone else around who understood him. “I’m summoning Elder Ben,” she announces, turning to go, leaving the siblings to their mourning. “Then we’re discussing this, all of us.”   

Despite of his grief, Foggy gives Matt a (more or less) gentle smack behind his head. “Stupid,” he says, weakly. “That’s how you lose a lady.”

“I don’t think Claire’s tastes run to Greeks,” Matt retorts, but Karen is still kneeling, head in her hands. 

“Sister,” Matt murmurs, touching her shoulder, but Karen’s head comes up now, he can feel her anger boiling in her like the sea in storm.

“I want them dead,” she says quietly, nails digging into her palms. “I want them drowned, dying of thirst, wandering without hope.” Her voice wobbles dangerously. “I want them to _suffe_ r.” 

Out of all them, Karen is the least openly demonstrative with affection when it comes to outsiders, but she is the most fiercely protective of her people and priests. Elena had been in Karen’s service for almost forty years.   

Matt nods. He doesn’t know what else to say. He pulls his sister in close and with his other arm, he pulls Foggy in too. Lets his older siblings collapse on him, because he is their brother and this is all he can do.  

*

For a man that was near death, Claire is impressed by the speed, clarity and imagination of the curses he is currently flinging at her, mostly in Greek, some in Latin and a few in Eirean. He hasn’t repeated himself once yet.   

“Don’t be such a child,” she reprimands as she applies more of the healing balm over his injuries.

“You are trying to kill me, witch,” he spits at her, trying to squirm away from her fingers. “That horrid paste is worse torture than my years in the Coliseum.” 

Despite being a healer, a druid, a Keeper, sworn to defend all with her steading, Claire deliberately jabs one of his bruises. “I’m not a witch,” she says calmly over his undignified yelp. “I’m a druid and the Keeper of this land and you are on my land. That puts you under my care.”

Vlad huffs and Claire smiles despite herself. He reminds her of Bran, all impatience and cock-sure about his own strengths. He’s very _young_ , she realises, not that much older than her.  

There is moment of silence, of her just working. 

"Why are you helping me?" He asks, quietly. "I killed many of your people." 

"Greta," she reminds him. “The little girl.”

His brow creases, then clears in memory. “The little wildcat.” 

Claire hums in affirmation, checking for infection in the sword cut. “Your brother gave her his sword before he died,” she says, almost casually. She pretends she does not hear his intake of breath. “He said she would make a good gladiatrix and you were to train her.”

She hears a sniff and a curse and a muttering about stupid older brothers. “What was his name?” she asks. 

The simple enough question silences him completely. “Anatoly,” he says finally. “He was--he was five years older than me. We stayed together through slavery, the gladiator camp, the Coliseum--everything.”

“He sounds like a good older brother,” Claire says simply. 

"He was," was the whispered reply and Claire turns her face away from his.  

The wards alert her that she has a new guest. Elder Ben comes into the cottage, Matt, Karen and Foggy at his side. Vlad tenses where he is. “I--I know you,” he says suspiciously to Matt. “You--you are the shadow the Commander sent us to find.”

“And you took the children of the steading,” Matt replies, his voice cool. 

Vlad shrugs and winces. “We would not have harmed her,” he mutters. “Much.” He eyes the group of Eirean and fey all staring at him and adds defensively, “We were told they would give us our freedom if we brought back the shadow to the General alive.”

It is Matt's turn to bristle as Claire shakes her head. What is it with men and their need to prove who is more superior. She turns her attention to Ben. 

"Elder Ben, have Karen and Foggy told you--”

“About Marci and Elena, yes,” finishes Ben wearily, face much older than it has been last night. “I have received multiple messages about attacks in all parts of the forest. They are burning groves and killing druids.”

“The bastard General is trying to smoke you out,” Vlad says, cocking his head towards Matt. “He will destroy everything he thinks matter to you.”

Claire can practically hear Matt’s mind churning as this information is revealed. He looks as if he is ready to bolt and run as far away from everybody. She moves towards him and places a hand on his tense arm. “Matt,” She whispers the same time as Ben questions the General’s motives. 

Vlad chuckles bitterly before he starts coughing. “Your shadow had bested his Commander and had halved his Legion. What other reason does he need?” 

Foggy and Karen look impassive. None of the playfulness she has seen just moments ago. “Let him come to us then,” says Karen, her face smooth and bone-pale, hands coiled into fists at her sides. “Let him come to us and see what the land is capable of.” 

“He doesn’t want you, woman.” Vlad speaks up. “He wants that one.” He points at Matt. “They say in the camp the General lost _his_ woman to a fey. That’s why he wants you all dead.” 

Foggy, Karen and Matt inhale sharply as one. “What was her name?” Karen asks. 

Vlad’s brow creases in thought. “She was Roman. She never spoke to me,” he protests but their stares are implacable. “I heard him call her Vanessa,” he says finally. “I saw him kill a man who tripped over the edge of her robe. She smiled and patted his hand. She _thanked_ him,” Vlad says, revulsion thick in his voice. “They say she walked into one of the lochs in the north. She never came out.”

“The water horses,” murmurs Karen. “She must’ve wanted to tame one of them. Stupid woman.”   

Vlad shrugs uncomfortably. “She was the only one who could reason with the General. Her and the Commander. Now that they’re both gone, the man will be madder than a snake-bit bull.”

"Stupid or not, she's dead. And this land will burn for it," says Ben flatly. 


	9. Leannán

The General remembers the first time Vanessa spoke to him, back in Rome, at some victory celebration the Emperor was throwing, before the sights had been set on Britannia and Hibernia. She had been cool, elegantly draped in a white toga, golden laurel leaves in her hair. She’d turned to him and smiled, even though he’d been in full battle regalia, uncomfortable in anything else, gripping a spear in his hand, clumsy words and awkward silences.   

Love is an emotion for children but Vanessa showed him better than love, _understanding_. She hadn’t feared his sudden, flaring rages or his abrupt silences, or his stuttering speech. She’d laid cool, perfumed hands on his cheek and called him _beloved_.  

And this land took her from him.

He dismisses the soldier reporting about his army's latest sack. The Emperor has lands and people enough. The General is no longer interested in contributing taxes to Rome’s coffers or lands to it’s maps. No, the General wants something more, something even more Roman than money or land.

Order. The Pax Romana, in all its purity and clarity, set upon this land. No more of this foolish praying to wood and water and darkness, of all things, as if it is something that could actually help. No, Hibernia will be cleansed of its foolish beliefs and its people will be the better for it. He knows this. Vanessa knew it. His Commander Wesley knew it.

They’re both gone now. But he, Wilson Quintus Flavius, will see it done. After all, he’s the only one who can.  

* * *

Claire watches Matt. He stands rigidly, looking out to the forest with his siblings. Behind them, the cottage is alive with noise. Gilda and her children have come, because as Claire has promised, she summons Greta to see her Greek gladiator. Already she is clambering over him, clamouring for a lesson in sword fighting. Their bickering is so amusing not even Ben or Gilda puts a halt to it. It is almost like a different world.

Karen and Foggy are silent. But she does not doubt that they are speaking together privately.

"Matt," she calls out softly.

As one, the three fey turn to her. Its moments like this that remind Claire that they are not human, with their eerie grace and uncanny connection to each other. They are the land in human form, but to call them human would be like setting a rock in a chair and giving it dinner.

 _But they laugh,_ Claire thinks. _They love, fight, bicker, grieve. How is that any less human than myself, or Ben?_

 _Guard your heart,_ Ben’s voice whispers and she sets aside her thoughts for now. “Will we still give taxes to the Romans?” she asks.

“Not to this one,” says Matt. “If he was reasonable, perhaps. But if what the Greek says is true--”

“They have sent a madman to Eire,” says Foggy grimly.  

She licks her lips and steps forward. “Then it will be war,” she says, not a question. “War between them and us.”

 _"Them_ and _us,_ " Karen replies, her voice thick with bitterness. "My Lady, you cannot tell me you still believe in mercy or accord. Not after last night. Not after this morning.”

Suddenly immeasurably weary, Claire sits down in the herbs of her garden, digging her fingers in the dirt. She is silent for a moment. "Mercy comes in different forms," she says. "This man, the General. He is grieving and out of his mind, bent on destruction. This quest he is on will only bring misery, to us and his people. The merciful thing to do is to reunite him with his beloved."

They are careful words. Kind words. But the message is clear. Foggy and Karen look satisfied, but Matt comes forward, kneels in front of her. He takes one of her hands in his own, fingers braiding around hers. “You don’t want this,” he probes gently.    

"What I _want_ is for the blood of our people to stop being spilled, Matt,” she says tiredly. “I want to believe in what we’re doing, I really do. But _this?_ ” She shakes her head, closes her eyes. “This is not what I want, you’re right. But what I want doesn’t really matter.”

There is a sigh, stirring the hair on top of her head. Matt’s arms wrap around her, steady as the earth and the oncoming night. He tucks her in under his chin and she feels herself relax into him. Regardless of the presence of his siblings, he leans forward and kisses her temple, sweetly and simply. Even with the chaos around their lives, it feels like respite, like a haven. Sanctuary. She turns her face up and presses a soft kiss on his lips. He smiles into it, just for a moment, letting it linger like sunlight before it sets. “Oh, Claire,” he tells her quietly. “You are the Keeper of the land. How does what you want not matter?”

She shrugs unhappily. “I need to want what is best for it,” she says. “Even if it hurts me.”

He holds her tighter. “Lady Claire,” he says, letting his lips settle on the crown of her head. “I will offer the General mercy.”

Claire stiffens in his arms, Foggy and Karen rear back like startled snakes. _"What,”_ hisses Karen but Matt keeps talking.

“I will offer it only once,” he tells her. “Let him decide whether or not he wants it. If he refuses, I will kill him, Claire.” The utter calmness of this statement makes Claire shiver, but not with fear. “The choice can be his. He can leave Eire alive or he can leave it dead. After that, we will do what we must.”

What we must. It sounds so final, so complete. Claire buries her face in his shoulder, breathing in deeply. He smells like woodsmoke at night, herbs from her garden mingling in his clothes and hair. “Thank you,” she breathes into his skin. “I just--” she stops, takes another breath and says again simply, “Thank you.”

 

* * *

There is something bad coming. Greta can feel it. The Lady Claire and the stranger--who is really the darkness of the forest, she knew it all the time, wait until she tells Bran and Aeron--are outside in the garden, along with Elder Ben and the rivers and tree fey, all talking together quietly. Their faces are grave and sober, the Lady Claire was in the arms of the dark, leaning against him like Greta remembers her mother doing with her father. None of them are paying attention to her, so she clutches the flower crown she made for Vlad and skitters her way to the cottage. The blonde haired man is still as she has left him, sitting down on the all too small cot. Lady Claire has told him to rest but Greta has a feeling that Vlad doesn’t listen to orders very well.

“You again,” he says without looking up. “Didn’t I tell you to stop bothering me.”

The little girl pouts and climbs up the cot anyway. She smiles when he does not move away. Her Ma says that she should not poke Vlad too much because he is a dangerous man but Greta doesn’t find him scary anymore. She places the crown of flowers on his head.

He reaches up to touch it and frowns. “What’s this?”

“Healing flowers,” she says, exasperated at his slowness. “To help you get better faster.”

He scoffs. “Flowers don’t work like that little one.” He pauses. “And why would you want me to heal faster? I’m one of the people who took you away or don’t you remember? ”

Greta scowls at the memory. “I don’t like you very much either,” she assures him. “But your brother promised you’d teach me.”

“Damn Anatoly,” says Vlad bitterly and Greta folds her arms across her chest, in her best imitation of the Lady Claire when she knows someone’s trying to pull a trick on her. Vlad eyes her suspiciously. “What if I _don’t_ teach you?”

“Then I’ll sit here and pester you until you do,” Greta replies defiantly and a sound like a rusty growl escapes Vlad’s mouth. It takes Greta a second to realize it is a laugh. 

 “Well, wee one. It would seem we are both tricked. My brother, the prankster.” He shakes his head. “I can’t teach you now. The Lady Claire has promised to have my head if I pull my stitches.”

Greta nods her head wisely. “She does that.”

With his good arm, Vlad leans over and takes the gladius from her. “Hold out your sword hand,” he commands her and Greta does. He holds it out to her, hilt first. “First rule,” he tells her, “never let anyone else touch your weapon.”

* * *

Claire is not entirely certain a young girl like Greta should be in the prolonged company of a man such as the Greek gladiator, but at the moment, they are bickering like she and Bran do over the last honey cake. Claire shakes her head as she watches. Matt is by her side, slowly helping her sort out healing herbs. “You feel sure enough of him to let Greta be with him?” he asks for her ears alone.

“It’s good that she’s arguing with him,” Claire replies, separating hazel, mistletoe and juniper. “It keeps the blood up, his mind distracted.”

Matt looks like he is ready to disagree but lets it go--for now, anyway. They continue with the herb sorting. “What will you and your siblings do?” Claire asks him softly. “The General knows to expect you know.”

Matt’s hands are calloused, the fingers long and elegant, carefully feeling for the shape and texture of each new herb. “Elena of the Rivers was Karen’s druid,” he tells her softly. “The Keeper of her steading, too. The General will be looking for the dark, but his men won’t last long without fresh water, or food. Already Foggy is concealing every edible herb and berry in the forest around them for the next three leagues. He’s sent most of the game away as well.”

“He can do that?” She asks in awe.

Matt shrugs. “You could too, if the need was great.”

Claire shakes her head. “If I tried doing something on that scale, I’d burn myself out, and take most of the land with me. If the fight was in my steading, then maybe I could do something like that.” She puts her head to one side, considering this thought.

Matt, of course, catches it. “No,” he says firmly, with a shake of his head. “We are not taking the fight here.”

But the thought has seized Claire. “But if you think about it, it can be our best chance of victory. The steading is built upon a land rich with magic. And if Karen and Foggy were both here with me, we could send the whole Roman army fleeing with their tails between their legs.”

“Your people cannot--” Matt starts but stops when the knife Claire is holding suddenly hovers two inches from his nose.

“Perhaps we are not _fey_ ,” says Claire, her voice a cool warning. “But the Eirean have fought many battles and my people know something of fighting Romans. We have built traps and snares and pits before; we can do it again.” She sees him wavering and flips the knife deftly over her fingers so she can use the hilt to tap the tip of his nose. “Elder Ben would agree with me,” she presses on. “So would Foggy and Karen. And if the Romans spend about two or three days starving, dying of thirst and scared witless, only to have the land itself fighting them...” Claire lets the words trail off meaningfully, because she and Matt can imagine it all too well, a soldier’s terror of an enemy he can’t fight off with a weapon.    

“Claire,” He starts.

“This could work,” Claire says, bypassing his argument. “More than could, it _will_ work.”

“The General would still be dangerous without his men,” Matt points out.

Claire smiles and puts down her knife long enough to stroke his cheek gently. “That is why I have faith in you.”

Matt’s eyes slid close as Claire’s hand strokes his cheek, his jaw up into his hair. “This is base flattery,” he says without heat.

“Is it working?” Claire asks with a grin, letting her fingers linger on the shape of his lower lip.

He shakes his head. “You’re a terrible druid,” he murmurs to her, glad that so far, Vlad and Greta are paying them no mind. “Treating your fey in such a disrespectful manner.”

“Is my supplication to you unworthy?” Claire asks softly and that sends Matt’s mind off in all _kinds_ of different directions, none of them appropriate given that there are two other people in the room with them.

Since turnabout is fair play, he takes the hand lightly caressing the side of his face and places a kiss first on her knuckles, then on her palm, right where the blade cut into it before. Then, because he is, as Foggy tells him often, an _utter_ bastard, he raises her wrist to his lips and kisses the pulse there, smiling against her skin as he feels it speed up.

A giggle catches their attention. Claire glances over her shoulder to see Vlad and Greta looking at them. The little girl is hanging on the man’s shoulder, watching them both with wide, fascinated eyes.

“Shame on you both,” Vlad says in mock reprimand. “And in front of a child too.”

Greta sniffs. “You should be here at Beltane,” she tells him. “When we jump over the embers. There’s always babies nine months later.”

Vlad clicks his tongue and slowly stands up with Greta still hanging on him. “Come along, wee one. I think I need to stretch my legs. And let these two talk about...grown up matters.”

Greta rolls her eyes. “I know about grown up matters,” she says and adds, “You need a cane.”

“A gladiator does not need a _cane_ ,” says Vlad scornfully.

“He does if he doesn’t want to topple over,” Claire says mildly, though her heart is going like a feast drum. “There’s a piece of cut wood that should do for him, Greta.”

Greta nods clambers down from her perch to find the makeshift wood as Vlad complains the whole time, reluctantly accepts the cane Greta offers him, and Greta puts his free hand on her shoulder, letting him lean on her. They leave the cottage arguing all the while.

Claire sighs and then yelps, for Matt’s arm is around her waist and pulling her into his lap before she catches up with the rest of the motion. “As the fey of the dark,” Matt tells her in a very serious voice, in utter contrast to their position, “I could always enlighten you as to what kind of supplications I find acceptable.”

Claire feels her mouth curl into a wide, delighted grin. They are facing down war and battle with enemies closing in around them and all of it fades into unimportance at the man smiling into her face, arms around her. She shifts her position on his lap so she is facing him. She takes his face between his hands, smiling in reply. “As your druid,” she says, letting her legs rest on either side of his thighs, “I am always prepared to accept any wisdom you bestow on me.” And because neither of them can keep a straight face with the other, she breaks into laughter, burying her face into his neck, feeling him shake with his own laugh.  

When their laughter dies a little, Claire takes his face in her hands again, relishing the fact he lets her do this. She kisses him, the first kiss they’ve shared when there is no life-and-death around them, no enemies to meet once it ends. It is long and slow and leisurely, his hands spanning the width of her back, framing her.

The light is golden and slow like honey when they finally part, out of breath and dizzy with the other. Claire’s fingers are impatient and deft, undoing the laces on her bodice, his tunic. A very small part of Matt’s mind that is not utterly consumed with her managed to get out, “Are you sure--” He is cut off by her mouth on his.

“I am the Keeper of the land,” she reminds him once more as they part, enjoying the sight of him with his tunic undone, out of breath and hair mussed crazily. “I keep--” a kiss to his jaw, behind his ear, making him shudder, “what is mine.”

Matt wisely decides to not to dispute the judgment of his druid. Without further argument, he wraps her legs around his waist, rising to his feet, her twined around him like ivy. It takes some maneuvering, but he finds Claire’s cot and they collapse into it.

Neither one of them do much…talking.

 

**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! And working hard, we promise you. Hope you all enjoy this latest chapter ;)  
> -youareiron_andyouarestrong


	10. Gaisce

“Sometimes I wonder if our Mother dropped you on your head when you were just a babe.” That is Karen’s greeting, come evening as Matt finds his brother and sister at the Grove. He had reluctantly left Claire asleep in her cot, laying a kiss on her temple, savoring the smell of the two of them on sheets.

He smells of her still even now and he does not care that both his siblings can tell.   

Matt tilts his head towards Karen’s direction. He can feel irritation pouring off of her, which immediately puts him on his guard. Karen can hold a grudge better than he can.  

“Karen…” Foggy says in a pacifying tone. But Matt can feel irritation off his brother too but it is tempered by worry and understanding.

“No Foggy. You coddle him too much.” He feels her put her hands on her hips and the full brunt of her disapproving gaze lands on him. He knows one of her lectures is coming. “She isn’t some virgin huntress on Beltane,” Karen says. “Nor is she some girl you court one night and leave behind come morning. I have seen you play your game before, brother. She’s a druid, a Keeper of the land. She deserves better than a tumble with you for one night.”

On the one hand, Matt knows his sister’s meddling is (usually) well-intentioned and he also knows she genuinely _likes_ Claire, otherwise she would not see fit to lecture him. But he isn’t a child and neither is Claire. He would have been hurt that she thinks him so shallow, if not for the fact that she is correct about his occasional escapades with mortal women. He is fey and he has never touched a woman who did not make it clear she wanted him.

His jaw tenses for a moment and then relaxes. He approaches his sister, hands outstretched to her. She remains stiff and immobile for a moment before reluctantly accepting his hands. “She is the Keeper,” he agrees quietly. “And I am the land. Sister, do you think so little of me that you believe I would leave a woman like Claire after only one time with her?”

"You’ve done it with all the others,” Karen reminds him pointedly.

He tilts his head in acknowledgement of this. “But they were not Claire,” he says plainly and he can feel Karen’s shoulders go loose and Foggy releases a long breath.

“Mother, Maiden, Crone,” Karen says softly. “Brother she is mor--”  

“Now is not the time to discuss it,” Matt says quickly. “Not with this fight ahead of us.”

Foggy and Karen exchange glances. Mother has given them the ability to transform into mortal shape to be able to understand the people better. Loving a mortal is not forbidden but is not encouraged. They live so short lives and time does not heal all wounds.

Sometimes, only rarely, almost unheard of, a fey can choose to willingly forsake their immortality for a human and only one they truly love. None of them have ever entertained such a thought in the eons they have been alive.

Matt may be the one to change that.

* * *

Claire wakes up, drowsy, sore and utterly content, stretching slowly and savoring the rough rasp of linen against her bare body. Sadly, the other side of the cot is empty, but if she is honest with herself, she did not expect him to be there when she awoke. They have a battle to fight and he is fey, after all, and she remembers Ben’s warnings about guarding her heart.   

She stands up and reaches for her robes, thrown hastily at one corner. Matt has left his mark. She can feel it forming at the point where her neck and jaw meets, tender when she accidentally brushes her fingers over it.

Outwardly, she rolls her eyes, but inwardly, she rather likes it, likes knowing he’s claimed her in a very _mortal_ fashion. She left her mark on him too, if she recalled, long, light scratches down his back, the half-moon imprint of her nails in his shoulderblades. It’s petty and silly and mortal, but it’s hard not to be satisfied with the thought.

There is a knock on the door. She puts on her robes and pushes her hair out. “Come in it’s open.”

Elder Ben comes in, accompanied by the Lady Gao and Elder Leland. The three of them have been Keepers and Elders for as long as Claire has been alive. “My Lady, we are all here to discuss this Roman threat,” says Elder Leland importantly.

Claire eyes him. She respects Elder Leland, but she does not like him, or even the Lady Gao. They are Keepers of larger, more prosperous steadings, who saw the wisdom of negotiating with the Romans and have been relatively unscathed by the General’s forces--and gave no help to the smaller, poorer steadings in the name of “diplomacy.” Many times the men from Claire and Ben’s steading have gone to ask for food or weapons for their families only to be politely, firmly turned away.

She instead invites them all to sit at her tale and pours out ale. “You are on good terms with the Romans,” she says carefully, handing out goblets. “Why change that now?”

Lady Gao is tiny, elegantly boned, who looks like a strong wind could knock her over and shatter her, smiles as kindly as any old granny-lady at Claire. She is not fooled. The Lady Gao has a backbone of iron. “Necessity called for us to parley with the Romans. Now, with the murder of the Lady Elena and the young Marci, we must take action.”

Claire bites down the obvious reply that they took their own damned time about it and replies as evenly as she can, “And you, Elder Leland? I understand your steading has grown very rich indeed from the bargaining you made with the Romans.”

The Elder Leland smiles at Claire as if she is a child trailing around in her mother’s borrowed robes, not a full-grown druid and Keeper of a steading in her own right. “My dear girl--”

“Lady,” says Elder Ben softly, with the mildest air of correction. “She is _Lady_ , Leland.”

Elder Leland glances at Elder Ben, then cuts his eyes at Claire. She feels him focus on the mark on her neck that Matt had left. “Yes. A Lady. Forgive me.”

“You have formed an--alliance?” inquires Lady Gao delicately and Claire sets her jaw. What she does in the privacy of her own home--or who she does it with--is no concern of theirs.

“I have spoken with the fey of the dark, the trees and the river,” she says, ignoring Lady Gao’s question. “They will help us drive the General and his men out. The dark will speak to the General and offer him one chance at leaving peacefully. If he refuses, then we fight.”

“The dark offering mercy?” Elder Leland asks dryly, another significant glance at the bite mark. “I see you have been teaching him well, My Lady.”

It takes all of Claire’s self-control not to throw the goblet of ale in his face--or pull up the collar of her robe to hide the mark. Instead, she stares him down. Let him say what he likes.

“Leland,” rebukes the Lady Gao gently. “Perhaps we should focus on the task at hand. Whatever the Lady Claire thinks is best for her steading, she must be at her own will to do so.”

“And neither one of you will get your hands dirty,” says Elder Ben, voice as pleasant as if they are discussing the weather or crops.

Lady Gao and Elder Leland both turn to glare at him. “We have our own steadings to think of,” says Leland, stiffly defensive.

“I am not asking either of you to fight,” Claire says, drawing their attention back to her. Not that you would, she thinks, but has the sense not to say it out loud. “If you do not help us, then that is your business. But I ask that you not hinder us either. Close your gates to the Romans, offer them no food or shelter, or weapons. Let them come here unaided by you and I will accept that.”

Elder Leland hems and haws and Lady Gao’s face becomes impassive as she considers this. Claire drinks from her cup of ale and thinks about Matt’s hands on her skin, his laughter in her ear as he smiles down at her and tells her she is beautiful.

“If you can _assure_ us you can win this fight--” Elder Leland starts to say.

“Assure us like the Romans did when they told us they would kill no druids?” says Lady Gao softly. Elder Leland shifts uncomfortably in his seat as Lady Gao continues. “The Romans have passed my steading already. They received no help from me, and nor will they, if you win.”

They all turn to look at Elder Leland who scowls at them. “This is a terribly inconvenient time for war,” he complains. “We were just beginning to start trade.” When they continue to stare at him in silence, he harrumphs crossly. “Oh very well. My steading will do no trade with the Romans if you succeed in this defeating the General nonsense.” He adds, “I don’t believe you can, but I suppose you would be welcome to try.”

Claire ignores the last part of that statement. “I accept your word,” she says, dipping her head in acknowledgment. “And I hold you to your oath,” she tells him, her voice burning with intent.

Lady Gao and Elder Leland depart, with their dignity more or less intact. Elder Ben turns to Claire, brow furrowing as he studies her again. “Lady…”

“He may leave me after we defeat the General,” Claire says, feeling heat creep up her face, but pushing on regardless. “He may leave me in a years’ time, five years, ten, or fifty. I do not expect forever with him, Ben, nor did I ever.”             

“My Lady, you deserve forever,” Ben says, touching her shoulder.

Claire sighs and squeezes his fingers in reassurance. “He is fey,” she reminds Ben unnecessarily. “He has forever. I do not.”

* * *

 

“Our rations are dangerously low, sir.” The young soldier says in a nearly even tone that surprised even him.

The army has been marching for three days, barely stopping for anything than minimum rest. Their food is steadily declining as they have not found anything edible on the path they are taking. Or anywhere else. It is perplexing. But even worse is the lack of water. They hear the river but they can never see it. The soldier stands straight and waits for a reply from his commanding officer.

“Sir?” he calls and when he again receives no reply, “Sir?”

The General has been pacing at the edge of camp like a caged lion at the Coliseum. Since the death of the Commander and the defection of the Gemini brothers, the General has been more and more erratic in the passing days. He paces about, staring into the dark, commands for them to chop down more trees, burn more wood, though they have nothing to burn on it and the men who go into the woods don’t come back.

The shadows turn outside the ring of firelight like oil in water.

“Come out,” the General says, unmoving. “Come forth. I would have words with you.”   

The soldier licks his lips and knows that this is his signal to leave as he slowly retreats from the General’s turned back. He wonders which odds are better. Staying in camp or taking his chances survival in the dark forest.

* * *

 

This mortal is something else. His eyes follow Matt’s path around the edge of the firelight. Something that is impossible in his other form. When the man beckons him to show himself once again, he steps forward in a flicker of shadow, becoming solid and real. The General’s heartbeat increases only slightly. The rest of him is as contained as a still pond. Matt could almost admire him for it.

Almost.

“Have a care, mortal,” he says letting the darkness trail after him like the way a robe might. “Many have spoken into the darkness and regretted what they have summoned.”

“I would speak to you,” says the General again.

“Speak, demand, I’ll answer,” Matt replies, the words like a flicker of a half-remembered story. He smiles then, showing his teeth sharp and just this side of feral. “If it suits me.”

The General blinks once. “Are you an augur, able to foretell the future?”

“I did not come here to offer you predictions for whatever future you are looking for,” Matt tells him. “I came here to offer you a choice.”

“What choice does the dark offer me?” the General asks, Roman disdain coming through now.

Matt’s eyes catch firelight; they glow gold like a hunting cat’s. “You leave Eire,” he says without preamble. “And you and all your men who leave with you live. Stay and fight at your own peril.”      

There is a moment of silence then slowly it is filled by a sound that reminded Matt of carrion crows coming to the battlefield. Laughter, he realizes.

“Tell me, fey. Have you ever watched the Roman army come to the battlefield?” the General asks. “Ten legions strong, all marching in formation. Roman might and skill, coming against screaming barbarians who paint themselves blue. Tell me, _fey,_ what hope do you have of driving us out?”

The fey tilts his head to one side, as if listening. “Tell me, _Roman_. Have you heard your men? They are dying of hunger and thirst, lost and afraid in my brother’s woods. My sister hides the rivers from them. How long do you think they will last without food, water or rest?”

“Then the weak shall perish,” the General replies as if it is a foregone conclusion.

“Roman, hear me,” Matt warns him. “The land will outlast you, we will outlast you. Why do you persist in this folly?”

Matt can feel the amusement pouring out of the General. “Have you ever felt love before, fey? Seen a woman smile at you and know you are the only one in her heart?”  

In spite of himself, Matt stiffens. _He does not know Claire,_ he tells himself. _He never even saw her._ The thought does not comfort him as much as he wants.  

“Ah. So you do know,” the General says, softening suddenly in in sympathy. It makes Matt’s skin crawl. “You see, you and I have a great deal in common.”

Matt’s lips peel back from his teeth. “We are nothing alike.”  

“Yes. You still have the face of a man who so much to lose.” The General shrugs, spreads his hands open wide. “You see, fey, I have already lost _everything_. And now you must ask yourself, how far do you think I am willing to go?”

“Then you have made your choice,” Matt says curtly, already half-melted back into the shadows. “The Morrigan will eat well.”

“You stepped into a cage with animals, fey,” the General calls after him. “Animals don’t stop until the other is dead.”

The only reply he gets is the creaking of the trees, the river bubbling and his men’s silence.

* * *

 

Claire’s steading is steadily turning into a battlefield. Men and women all contributing their share to the cause. Even young children are running around passing tools and fletching arrows. Vlad, at first suspicious and surly, is preoccupied with teaching the men the best tactics to outwit and disadvantage the Roman soldiers.  

“Humans are truly fascinating,” Foggy says. Vines carrying massive logs to be used as barricades follow him like an extra set of limbs. The people look at him with wide-eyed wonder. He gives them a friendly wave in return. “Look how fast they work.”

“We’re well motivated,” Claire assures him. Karen is there as well, calling up water from the ground like a diviner, making the ground boggy and slick with mud, unsuitable for marching in. The children crowd close around her in delight, taking every opportunity to stomp their feet in the mud. Karen is actually smiling at the company, seemingly unaware of the mud flecking her elegant silvery blue robes.

“I want to thank you my Lady,” Foggy states. “My siblings and I have long stop interacting with the mortals in such a personal level.”

There is a shriek from one side of the steading. Foggy and Claire turn in time to see Matt materialize from the dark. Greta, proudly carrying her new gladiator sword on her shoulder, flings it one side in her rush to get to him, closely followed by Bran and Aeron.

“Stranger, stranger you are back!” Greta shouts, flinging her arms around him. Matt staggers slightly and puts one hand on Greta’s shoulder to steady himself.

There is a smile on Matt’s face but it is a tired one. With one arm, he scoops Greta up and places her lightly on his shoulder. Bran and Aeron cluster close to either side of him. “Hello Greta,” he says as she swings her legs happily.  

He walks towards Foggy and Claire and surveys the surrounding. “This looks good.”

Foggy nods. “Better than I expected. How goes the talk?”

Matt gently eases Greta off his shoulder, the little girl pouting slightly, but she runs off to grab her sword where she dropped it. She runs towards Vlad, demanding to be taught with the rest of the men, even as he glowers at her.

Claire is watching Matt’s face and asks softly once Greta is out of earshot, “He said no?”

Matt nods. “They should be here by the next dawn.”

She caresses his cheek. He leans into her warm touch. “We expected this,” she says softly. “That’s why we’re here.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE'RE FINALLY BACK. and working hard, we promise you. thank you so much to everyone who waited so patiently, and left kudos/comments/bookmarks.   
> \--Rachel


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